


Pond Ice and the In Between

by luxover



Series: Pond Ice and the In Between [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I thought your name was Zhenya,” Sid says, which—right, they didn’t talk about that, he just read it on the name tag and also probably butchered the pronunciation beyond repair. He thinks, maybe, that he should have only two states in life: on the ice, and in the office, and there should never exist any in between for him. He feels his face flush as he sort of tries to fix the situation, gesturing to his own chest, to where his nametag would be if he wore one, and says, “Your, uh. Your nametag yesterday said Zhenya? So I thought… I don’t know.”</p><p>Or: The coffee shop AU that is still somehow all about hockey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pond Ice and the In Between

**Author's Note:**

> For [lalalalynds](http://lalalalynds.tumblr.com/), without whom this never would have been started, and definitely never would have been finished.
> 
> And for [salvamisandwich](http://salvamisandwich.tumblr.com/), master cheerleader, brainstormer, hand-holder, picspammer, and Lux-wrangler.

It figures, Sidney thinks, that the best day of the year should happen to coincide with the worst day he’s had at work in a long time. This merger is a big deal, but the other lawyer working on it is kind of an asshole, making everything more difficult than it needs to be, and Sid’s exhausted, running on fumes after twenty-seven hours without sleep. It’s okay, though; just this once, Sidney doesn’t mind, because it’s the first night of real winter—hockey weather—and nothing’s going to keep him from that, from stepping out onto the ice again, not this merger case and certainly not the fog in his head from being awake for so long. 

Making sure he has his wallet, Sidney leaves his office and walks down the hall towards the elevators. There’s a coffee shop a block away—Nathalie’s Café—that he practically lived in his first few years at the firm, and that makes a decent cup of coffee. He guesses that’ll have to do, because it’s not like he has the time to nap. 

When the elevator reaches the lobby, Sidney steps outside and immediately squints against the harsh sunlight. It’s cold out—and windy, too, which will only make that night’s game more interesting—but the sun is warm on his skin for a second, and it makes him feel even more tired, makes his eyelids open slower on each blink. Standing outside, he realizes he forgot a coat, but it’s not worth going back upstairs for, and so he jogs the block over, pulls the door open and heads inside to the counter. 

“One second!” someone shouts from the back, and so Sidney just stands there, thinks about who’ll probably show that night and who might have family stuff, work obligations. Flower’ll definitely be there, and Ovechkin, too, and when Sid ran into Tazer at the drug store, he said he was bringing his crazy American friend, and so there’ll definitely be a good turnout. No Giroux, luckily, and no Briere, either, because it’s his son’s birthday, and Nuge got stuck with a night shift waiting tables at T.G.I.Friday’s, and he thinks—

“Hello?” a voice is saying to him, and Sidney’s thoughts snap to the present, to the barista standing in front of him. The guy is tall, dark-haired, and he's looking at Sidney with a faint smile on his face; judging by his accent, he’s not from around here. “Can I help?” 

Sidney blinks again, startled, and says, “Oh, yeah, that’d be great, actually, if I could get—” He cuts himself off as he finally looks around the café. None of it looks familiar, not the couches or the art on the walls, not even the position of the pastry case. “This isn’t Nathalie’s Café. Does Nathalie work here?” 

“No,” the barista says. _Zhenya_ is written on his nametag in clear block letters, and Sid can’t even begin to guess how to pronounce it. “But if you want coffee, we have?” 

“Oh. Yeah,” Sidney says. “Can I just—a large latte, with an extra shot? Nonfat? Please?” 

“No problem,” Zhenya says, and he grabs a paper cup, turns his back on Sidney as he works the espresso machine. He keeps talking, though, just a little, saying, “You new. You work close?” 

“Yeah,” Sidney says, pulling his wallet out of his pocket. “Just a few blocks away.” He feels like he should say something else, something like, _Where are you from?_ or, _How long have you had this shop for?_ or even, _How do you pronounce your name?_ but he’s kind of preoccupied, his brain bouncing back and forth between hockey and mergers, and so instead he says nothing, and Zhenya finishes making his drink in silence. 

When he’s done, Zhenya slides Sidney’s drink across the counter and asks, “Anything else?” 

“No, thanks,” Sidney says, and Zhenya smiles. 

“Not even _pirozhki_?”

“I’m sorry?” Sidney says. He definitely didn’t catch that. 

“Little pie,” Zhenya explains, gesturing with his hands. “Sweet inside—apple, cherry, _tvorog._ ” 

Sid doesn’t know that word, either, but instead of mentioning it, he turns and looks at the display case; it’s filled with all these buns and mini pies, and they look good, he supposes, but he’s playing later and there’s no way they’re at all good for him, and so he says, “Just the coffee,” and hands over a fiver. 

He wonders if Nikitin’s going to be there tonight, or if maybe it’s Parent-Teacher night. And he hopes he had his secretary pull the Stastny-Sakic file, because he’s going to need that, although on second thought, maybe Nikita said Parent-Teacher night was last week, Sidney doesn’t know. He just wants to finish up at work and head over to the pond, lace up his skates and—

“Your change,” Zhenya says, and Sidney realizes that he’s just been staring into space, looking at Zhenya but not really seeing him. 

“Sorry,” he says, feeling his face flush. He takes the change and then adds, “It’s been a long day.” 

“Is what I’m here for,” Zhenya says, smiling again, and Sidney sort of awkwardly waves at him with the hand not holding his cup. 

“Right,” he says. “Thanks,” and he turns around, heads towards the door and out onto the street. 

“Have a good day!” Zhenya says as he leaves, but Sidney doesn’t respond. 

It’s only once he’s on the sidewalk that Sidney stops and takes a sip of his coffee. It’s hot, but not too hot to drink, and genuinely the best cup of coffee he’s had in a long while. 

He glances at the storefront sign. _Samovar,_ it says, with the image of something that looks almost like a top-heavy teapot. 

Sidney just chalks it up as another word he doesn’t know, and heads back to the office. 

 

Sidney's out the door the second the clock ticks over to five. Usually, he's lucky if he leaves by ten o'clock, but he loves his job and it's not like he has anything better to do most nights of the year, and so he doesn't mind it so much. On a hockey night, though? On a hockey night, Sid genuinely thinks he'd just quit if something happened and he was asked to stay late. 

The streets are busy by the time Sidney gets his car from the garage, everyone heading home at the same time, and the lights are still on in Samovar when he drives by. For a second, he thinks about running in an grabbing another cup, but they've got a new pond this year, one that the Staal brothers made out on Marc's sod farm, and that's a good hour away; Sid doesn't want to risk it, and so he keeps driving, settles for the water and half a flat of Gatorade that's kicking around in his backseat. 

It's crazy, Sidney thinks, just how excited he is for this. He can feel his love for hockey right down to his bones, and for a second, he wonders what his life could have been like if there was a professional league, and if it was something he was good enough to make the cut for. He doesn't spend too much time dwelling on it, though, because he still gets to play every winter, and that's really all that matters to him; money's just money, and it's never really been the point of anything, not for Sidney. 

It's getting dark by the time he pulls onto the farm, and he can see the haze from the floodlights around the pond peeking out from just behind the house. Jordan and Jared, the two youngest Staals, are out front, bundled up against the cold and playing a two-person version of two-touch with an old, beat-up soccer ball. 

"We're the welcoming committee, I guess," Jordan says when Sid steps out of his car. "Marc's out back if you want to set up." 

"You're the first one here," Jared adds, and neither of them so much as take their eyes off the ball when they speak to him. 

"Yeah, I figured as much," Sid says, because there are no other cars there. He pops his trunk and shoulders his bag. "Eric coming?" 

Sid likes Eric; he's a funny guy, but he's serious, too, about hockey and his brothers and his job as a Classics professor at the local community college. He keeps getting offers to teach at all these Ivy League schools, and Stanford and UCLA and especially UNC, but he won't take them because he says he doesn't want to be that far from home. He's good people, just like all the Staals are; Sidney likes them all well enough. 

"Nah, night class," Jared says, letting out a groan as he stretches for the ball. It grazes the tip of his sneaker and then hits the ground. "Fuck. But yeah, he's coming next week, and bringing his jailbait boyfriend with him, or whatever." 

"He's got a boyfriend?" Sidney asks, his eyebrows raised in shock. Last he heard, Eric's exes were all incredibly beautiful, incredibly leggy women. 

"Well, no, not really," Jared admits. 

"He's not really jailbait, either," Jordan says with a shrug. "It's just some kid that Eric teaches at school. Eric swears it's not like that, but he talks about him all the time, so who knows." 

"Oh," Sidney says. He doesn't know what else to say, because all he cares about is hockey, and he's never had a brother who might potentially be sleeping with a student. "Toews is bringing a friend tonight, too, so at least we'll have some new guys this winter." 

Another car pulls up—Ovie's, based on the music blasting through the speakers—and Sid doesn't really want to deal with him, so instead he waves awkwardly at the Staals and trudges around the house to where Marc is. It's not that Sidney hates Ovie or anything—he doesn't, not compared to Giroux or Hartnell—but Ovie's real flashy, and a big motor mouth, and the two of them have never really seen eye to eye. Minimal social interaction with that guy is best, Sid thinks, and then amends it to minimal social interaction with anyone. 

The pond, when Sid gets there, is fucking beautiful, all untouched ice that looks like glass, a cage at either end. Marc's in the middle of putting up some netting behind the goals, too, to catch stray pucks, and even though Sidney's never been here before, it feels so much like coming home. He likes that. 

He waves to Marc and then wastes no time lacing up, taping his shin pads and putting his helmet on, leaving the chinstrap undone. He gestures to the ice, and Marc just shrugs, shouts out, "Sure," and then Sidney's out there, his blades the first to glide over the ice, the first to cut snow. He thinks maybe he was born to do this. 

Sid's not sure how long he's out there for—probably no more than ten minutes—but when he looks up, they've got about two dozen guys getting ready, lacing up and shooting the shit. Flower's there, his new goalie mask painstakingly painted by his girlfriend to look like it's covered in money, and he waves when he sees Sidney looking. 

"Hey, fuckface!" Flower yells. "Long time no see!" 

It's a blatant lie; Sidney saw him last week for lunch, because the two of them are actually friends even without hockey. He laughs anyways, though, because it's Flower, and because he's happy. 

"Yeah, yeah," he says under his breath, mostly just for himself, and he skates over. When he gets to the edge, he goes shoulder to shoulder with Flower and asks, "New guys?" Flower's better at that kind of stuff than he is; better at people. He doesn't help run things, can't organize anything to save his life, but he keeps track of the who's who: who can make it and who can't, that sort of thing. 

"A few," Flower says with a shrug, and then he goes about pointing them out. "This guy," he says, referring to a blond kid chewing on his mouth guard, "came in with Toews. His name is Kaner? I think. And the brown hair near Kesler is Kunitz—Jesus Christ, they all have practically the same last name—and that fucking giant in the back is Zdeno, or some shit like that. Six foot nine, I already asked." 

Sidney nods and says, "Eric Staal's supposed to be bringing some new kid next time, too." 

"Awesome," Flower says, nodding and probably filing that away in his mental rolodex. "No Giroux this week, and EZDZ's out, too; Whitney's running late—I think the fucker finally sold a car today—but guess who is here?" 

"I don't know," Sid says, shrugging. "Paul Coffey?" 

"No," Flower says, smiling like he's got something great to say. " _Varly._ " 

And that—Sid hasn't seen or heard from Varly in about two years. It's a bit of a surprise. 

"I thought his manager said he couldn't play," Sid says. "Because of his fingers." 

"The kid's twenty-four and been playing for old rich dudes since he was thirteen," Flower says, like any of this is new information, like the two of them didn't Google this together when Varly said he was leaving. "I think he's just sick of it, man. The piano's fucking boring, anyway." 

"It's not hockey," Sidney agrees, and then he skates out to the side a bit, so he's out in front of all the players. He doesn't know why he's in charge, not really, but he guesses it's just because he stepped up a few years ago, back when Gretzky was calling it quits, and no one else did. 

Then again, Gretzky went on to become the Minister of State for Sport, so Sid supposes he has his excuses.

"Go get 'em, tiger," Flower jokes, and Sid ignores him. 

"Alright," he says aloud instead, getting everyone's attention. "Same rules as last year—we’re full contact, and the last sticks left in the pile officiate. Thanks to Marc for the ice—we'll let him captain tonight, for that, and give him first pick, and, uh. That's it, I guess." 

And it's not very eloquent, Sidney knows, but no one seems to care, everyone too busy tossing their sticks in a pile, praying that theirs get picked out and that they're not stuck reffing the first scrimmage of the winter. 

Sidney doesn’t cross his fingers, but it’s a near thing. 

 

They play two full games, and it couldn't be better, being out on the ice with a puck on his tape. Sidney gets called on for Marc's team, which is great considering that the other team has Ovie and Hartnell, and all the new guys are pretty skilled and actually not new to hockey at all. It's completely different from a few years ago, when Nuge, Hallsy, Ebs, and Johnny Moore were their only newbies, none of them older than sixteen and all of them just starting out; John was the only one who even knew how to tape a stick back then, and now the four of them are suffering through college together, living in a shitty house together, playing beautiful hockey together. Sidney doesn't exactly feel like a part of all that, but he feels like he's creating something for other people to be a part of, and that's almost the same thing. 

Once the first game's teams are set, Sidney steps up for the opening faceoff, and of course, Ovie does, too. 

"Your mother call last night," Ovie says to him as they're bent over, sticks on their thighs. He's smiling like he's laughing, some teeth knocked out, and Sidney honestly doesn't hate him, but Ovie's just so unbelievably annoying in everything that he does. "She try to order five dildos because your father can't fuck good." 

Sidney doesn't let it get to him much—or at all—because he's a big shot fucking lawyer and Ovie works in telephone sales for the Home Shopping Network. He doesn't even sell adult toys; he sells costume jewelry and cooking appliances to middle-aged women who are stuck at home and bored out of their minds. A good eighty-five percent of what Ovie says is bullshit, and the other fifteen is in Russian, so what does Sidney care? At least he's got all his teeth. 

They're all a bit worse for wear, though, so Sidney supposes he can't really say anything. His nose is crooked from a puck to the face when he was still in law school, Marc lost vision in one eye for a bit last winter because of the same thing, and two years ago, Hallsy had to get thirty stitches after cutting his forehead open on someone's skate, and he looked pretty gruesome there, for a while. The goalies are the only ones who really wear much by way of protection, anyways, and that's because they're insane and choose to have pucks flying at their faces on a regular basis. Flower says it's got nothing to do with getting hurt and that he only wears the mask to protect the money-maker, but that's just him talking shit and making fun of Henrik Lundqvist, who once modeled sweaters in a catalog for LL Bean; Flower's actually a banker, although Sid figures they wouldn't want him coming into work looking like an extra from Fight Club, either. Still, they were willing to overlook his bruises and broken fingers, and one or two twisted ankles, so that’s nice. 

"Okay," Sidney says to Ovie, because he really doesn't have anything else to say. And then, mostly because he feels like trash talk is more in the spirit of things, he says, "I'm gonna destroy you, and I'm gonna make it look easy." 

"You fucking—" Ovie says, but then Landeskog drops the puck and Sidney never hears what Ovie says next, because he's off, racing down the ice. 

For most of the first game, Sid's on a line with Tazer and Kaner. They make it work, considering both he and Toews prefer center, but the funny thing about it is how good Kaner is, and not because of his size or anything, but mostly because of how Toews reacts around him. On the ice, all the two of them do is yell at each other, it seems, and Sidney can hardly imagine they're having a good time, but when they were picking teams, every time it was Marc's pick, Tazer would say, _Pick Kaner. Kaner's good, pick Kaner._ Marc ignored him the first seven or so rounds, but whether it was just to mess with him or because he was wary of picking someone new and small, Sidney doesn't know. At any rate, he eventually did pick Kaner, just to shut Tazer up, and now, even when they're scoring, they're still fighting. 

Sidney's pretty okay with it, needless to say, when things get shifted around and he winds up on a line with Kunitz and Jordan Staal. 

There's one moment, though, that Sidney thinks he'll remember more than anything else from that night. He's got the puck, and he wraps it around the back of the net for Kuni, and then watches as the puck goes from Kuni to Jordy, and the _shot_ —off the post—to Marc and then to Jordy before finally coming back to him for the glove-side shot, half a dozen paces out. It happens so fast, and by the time Varly's got his glove up, the puck is already buried in the back of the net. And then—and this is the important part—Varly sits back on his haunches with his hands on his thighs, shaking his head, and when he looks at Sidney—he's laughing. 

At first, it's almost like Sidney's taken a blow to the head and is seeing things, because he remembers Varly, how sometimes his shoulders would sag when he got scored on, like all his strings were cut, and how sometimes he'd bang his stick loudly against the cage and curse in Russian. He never laughed, though, and that's the thing. 

And then Lundqvist, who's off the ice because he was in the cage the first game, shouts out, "It's good to be back, isn't it?" 

"Really fucking good," Varly yells back, his voice soft in the way only a non-native speaker's can be, and he's still smiling. Sidney thinks he's never understood anyone better than he understands Varlamov at that exact moment. 

Any hockey—even bad hockey, _losing_ hockey—is better than no hockey at all, and that's the point. 

They make quick work of cleanup a little after midnight, everyone tired and happy except for the few still mad over their fights. Nothing major happened, though, just a solid hockey night, and Sidney feels good about it, about their guys and their season. 

He hangs back as everyone heads to the front of the house, as Flower and Ovie yell ridiculous things while directing car traffic down the long driveway, and he puts his hands in his pockets, looks out at the pond and at Jordan and Jared still on the ice, trying to one-up each other with trick shots on one of the open goals. 

"That went alright," Marc says next to him. 

"Yeah," Sidney agrees. Everything's calm and quiet, and it feels weird, after having so many guys out there. "Thanks again for the ice." 

He feels Marc shrug more than he sees it, and Marc says, "I had the space, and Jordy said we got booted from our old pond." 

"Yeah," Sid says again, not wanting to get into it. He gestures down to the pond. "Need help hosing it down?" 

"Nah, I'm just gonna make them do it, or refuse to feed them. You head home, get some sleep." 

And Sidney—Sidney's so fucking happy, still riding on that hockey high, but Marc saying that just reminds him that he's dead on his feet. 

"Alright, well, just let me know if—if next week, maybe, or even later—"

"Sid," Marc says, smiling lightly. "You basically coordinated this whole thing. Get off my fucking farm, and let me take care of the ice." 

Sid laughs a little, embarrassed, and he runs his fingers through the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. He takes one last look out at the pond, at Jordan going between the legs, flipping the puck into the air and batting it into the top right corner, and then he turns around, takes his bag and heads back to his car and back home. 

 

Of course, Sidney gets no sleep. He doesn’t get home until a little after two, wakes up a little after five, and is out the door by six, and so the first thing he does—before he even gets to the office—is he swings by Samovar for some much needed coffee. 

It’s quiet when Sid gets there, only two women waiting for drinks, and Zhenya’s there again, manning the counter by himself. He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, and he looks—he looks really good, and Sidney doesn’t know how he missed seeing that before. 

“Lucy,” Zhenya says, reading a name off the side of the cup, and when one of the women walks forward, he hands it to her. Sidney can’t stop staring at Zhenya’s forearms; he thinks maybe he’s too tired to even order coffee, too tired to function. He’s just about to turn around and leave, follow the two chatting women out the door, when Zhenya sees him and smiles widely. He says, “You come back! When you leave last time, I think that’s it, but I was wrong.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Sidney says, and Zhenya takes a sip out of his own chipped, white mug. Sid wants to know what he’s drinking, and so partly because he’s tired and partly because he has no filter, he asks, “What are you drinking?” 

“Black tea,” Zhenya says, like it’s a perfectly normal question, and maybe Sidney pulls a face, but maybe not. Either way, Zhenya leans against the back counter and explains, “In Russia, where I am from, tap water is very bad and we need boil first, so we just drink tea. Is good, reminds me of home.” 

“Oh,” Sid says. “Yeah I need something more—” he makes a gesture, spreading all ten fingers of his hands as far as they’ll go, “you know, with more caffeine.” 

Sidney lets his eyes drift to the chalkboard behind the counter that’s serving as a menu, and tries to make heads or tails of it. He doesn’t know what half these drinks are, macchiatos and mochachinos and chai latte infusions. The handwriting is meticulous, though, the same careful lettering that was on Zhenya’s nametag the day before, and he wonders if that’s Zhenya’s handwriting, if Zhenya’s always that careful with it. 

“You want you try something new?” Zhenya asks, a small smile on his face like he already knows the answer, and Sidney wonders vaguely if he’s being made fun of. He’s just too fucking tired to care, though, if he’s being honest. 

“Uh, no, thanks,” Sid says. “Just a large skim latte with an extra shot.” 

Zhenya nods and plucks a paper cup off the end of a stack, and uncaps a marker before looking up and saying, “Name? For order?” 

Sidney looks around. There’s no one else in the café but him, and he feels like this should be ringing all sorts of bells, only it’s not, and so he says, “Sidney.” 

“Sidney,” Zhenya says, slowly as he’s writing it out. And then he looks up, smiles widely as he says, “I’m Geno.” 

And that’s—

“I thought your name was Zhenya,” Sid says, which—right, they didn’t talk about that, he just read it on the name tag and also probably butchered the pronunciation beyond repair. He thinks, maybe, that he should have only two states in life: on the ice, and in the office, and there should never exist any in between for him. He feels his face flush as he sort of tries to fix the situation, gesturing to his own chest, to where his nametag would be if he wore one, and says, “Your, uh. Your nametag yesterday said Zhenya? So I thought… I don’t know.” 

“No, is right,” Zhenya— _Geno_ says, and he’s still smiling at Sidney. “My name is Evgeni, and in Russian, nickname is Zhenya. But in English, is too hard to say, so I say, just Geno is fine.” 

“Oh. Okay, Geno,” Sidney says, and Geno nods, turns his back to make Sid’s coffee. Sid watches him and he can’t look away, because Geno’s shirt fits snugly and stretches across his shoulders, and some part of Sidney likes that in the same way that he likes hockey and that he likes corporate law: in the kind of way where he can’t help it, and doesn’t really want to try. 

The conversation drifts to a natural halt as Geno shifts between the machines, and Sid’s brain sort of just stops working, stops processing anything that he’s seeing. He thinks there must be some serious negative side-effects to not sleeping, but he’s got a while before that, anyways, and it’s not like he can just skip work, or skip hockey. It’s alright; he’ll make do. 

Sidney blinks slowly once, twice, and then rubs at his eyes with his closed fists. When he blinks third time, Geno’s there, holding Sid’s finished coffee and looking at him like he doesn’t make sense. Sid braces himself, waits for an admonishment that he’s overworking himself, but it doesn’t come, and of course it doesn’t come; Geno doesn’t _know_ him. 

“Anything else?” Geno asks. “ _Pirozhki,_ maybe?” 

Sid darts his eyes to the pastry case, and the thing is, he kind of really does want one, because they look good and because Geno seems to really be pushing them. Only he remembers skating against Drew Doughty the night before, and how hard he felt he had to work just to keep up, and he shakes his head. 

“Just the coffee,” he says, because he has oatmeal that he can make in the office kitchen, and fruit shoved in his mini-fridge, and Geno pulls a face, one that maybe says, _You’re missing out,_ and he rings Sidney up. 

“One day, maybe,” Geno says, handing him his change. “You see; you like them.” 

And sure, maybe, but it’s doubtful. Mostly, Sidney just sees how quickly he’s changed in Geno’s mind, from _never coming back_ to _potential regular._ He wonders what it was, what he missed, that makes Geno so sure. 

 

The office is quiet when Sid gets in, which is great, because he’s got piles of contracts to go over before they can be signed, and this merger is hanging over his head as something that could potentially make him a lot of money but also potentially end his career if he fucks it up, and it’s hard to work when people keep popping in, wanting to talk about things that he doesn’t care about. 

He finishes his coffee after about ten minutes of sitting at his desk, which is good because the caffeine keeps him from drifting his eyes towards the window, but on the other hand, he still kind of wants more. He wonders what people would think if he ordered two cups, if that would make him look a little too crazed or if they’d think he was buying some for someone else. Sidney’s never bought coffee for anyone else before; he’s not really sure how that etiquette goes. 

He’s been at it for a few hours, papers scattered all over, when the cardboard sleeve slides down his empty coffee cup and clatters on the wood of his desk, startling him out of his thoughts. He jumps, accidentally dragging his fountain pen across his cheek, and when he looks at the cup, he notices that there’s all this writing on it that had been hidden before. The lettering is cramped, rushed, and he’d never have guessed that was Geno’s handwriting if he hadn’t seen Geno actually write it, because it looks nothing like the writing on his nametag. 

Sidney picks the cup up and brings it closer to his face. The writing’s definitely not in English—so Russian, then. It looks crazy; Sidney can hardly pick out individual letters because of the way they all run together, like that time he tried to read a handwritten letter from his grandmother after having been diagnosed with a concussion. 

Sid sets the cup aside and Googles the Cyrillic alphabet. He compares what Wikipedia is telling him with what he sees on his cup, and then tries to rewrite everything out in simple block letters on a spare sheet of printer paper, just to make heads or tails of it. He sort of loses track of time. It’s like trying to solve a puzzle, or looking for that one perfect pass that’ll find the back of the net; everything else just falls away. 

When he thinks he’s got everything down right, Sidney pulls up Google translate and opens up the Russian keyboard. He painstakingly clicks on the same characters that he has written down on paper, and twice the computer prompts him with _Did you mean….?_ Sid figures he probably did, and when he clicks translate—

Sidney. Quadruple shot latte. Skim. 

Sidney doesn’t know what he wanted it to say—or even really what he was expecting—but he feels like an idiot for not realizing that of course it was his order. He rolls his eyes at himself and crumples up his scratch paper, tosses it towards the trash and doesn’t bother to get it when he misses. He’s about to toss the cup next and then get back to work, but his office door is thrown open and Sidney jumps again, the cup falling from his hand and clattering its way across his desk and onto the floor. He just leaves it there and instead rubs at his eyes, blames his lack of sleep for why everything is catching him off guard today. 

“What do you want?” Sid groans, and he doesn’t even have to look over to see that it’s Gonch, who Sidney knows from hockey and who can just stroll into work at ten, no problem, because he’s a family lawyer and has a normal, sane schedule. 

“Just saying hi,” Gonch says, laughing a little at him, and he drops himself down into one of the empty chairs in the office, his tie flapping as he does. “I’ve got a family coming in in an hour, but until then…” He spreads his hands in a gesture of _I’ve got nothing._

“You should’ve come last night,” Sidney says, ignoring what Gonch said, because he’s only saying it to rub it in. “It was good. The pond’s nice.” 

“Ah, yes,” Gonch says, teasing. “Hockey, hockey, hockey. You forget I have kids.” 

“I didn’t forget,” Sid says, but mostly what he means by that is, _What does that matter?_ and Gonch probably knows it, too. “Anyways, I have this huge case that I’m working on, and—” 

He cuts himself off because Gonch is bending down, reaching out to pick up the crumpled piece of paper that Sidney had tossed to the trash, and this is absolute worst case scenario, so embarrassing, because Gonch is Russian, and he’ll read it and he’ll _know,_ and—

“Just toss that for me, will you?” Sid asks, going for nonchalant, but it comes out strangled and so Gonch uncrumples it, smooths it out against his leg to read. 

“You looking to order coffee in Russian?” Gonch says, smiling a little. “I know the barista’s quiet, but he _does_ know English.” 

And that—

“He’s not quiet,” Sidney says without thinking, because Geno’s not, only the second the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. Gonch is looking at him funny, and Sidney doesn’t know what that means; he doesn’t even know why he cared what Geno wrote on his cup to begin with. 

“Right,” Gonch says slowly. 

Sidney waves his hand, bats Gonch’s comment away, and says, “Listen, we’re meeting again at Marc’s farm to play some more tomorrow night. You better come, or we can’t be friends anymore.” 

“We’re not friends,” Gonch tells him. “We’re colleagues.” 

“Yeah? Then get out of my office and go do some work,” Sid says, and Gonch laughs at him, but at least he listens. 

 

Sid manages to leave work a whole forty-five minutes earlier than expected, which is nice because that means he's getting home at ten-thirty instead of a quarter to twelve, and so he actually has time to relax and just do nothing. On the other hand, Sidney doesn't exactly know _how_ to relax and do nothing, so he hops on the treadmill for a half hour and then tapes two of his hockey sticks, even though he knows as he's doing it that he'll just wind up retaping them before he actually uses them. 

Afterwards, after he showers and throws on an old pair of gym shorts, Sid throws himself down on the couch to watch whatever's on the history channel while answering some of his personal emails, all of which are related to his hockey league. Which—it's not even a _league,_ not really; it's just a bunch of guys who meet up two or three times a week for pick-up games, but it's better than nothing and it's sort of become Sidney's whole life. 

The first email is just from Flower, a Word Document with everyone's contact details and the message, _Check that your info is correct, or don't come complaining to me when you're the only asshole who doesn't know what's going on._ Sid just stars the email so he can find it when he needs it, and deletes Max Talbot's reply-all response of, _Yeah, mine's fine, but if anyone wants to learn how to skydive, just let me know and I'll get you a discount._ Sid has no interest in skydiving to begin with, and with the promise of Max as his instructor, he has even less. 

The next message he opens is from Nicklas Backstrom—another listserv email, this time with nothing more than a cellphone video attachment and the words, _May this winter be twice as rough and three times as fun… Still think it was an improvement, Belly!_ Sid's pretty sure he knows what's coming, but he opens the clip anyway; it's not the best quality, dim lighting and shaky hands, but he can easily make out a few people, Eric Belanger sitting on the back bumper of someone's car, BizNasty wearing latex gloves and holding a piece of bloody gauze up to Belly's mouth. 

"It's not looking good, brother, I'm not gonna lie," BizNasty says, and even now, after years of having known him, Sid has trouble wrapping his brain around the fact that he's a certified general practitioner from nine to five; Bissonnette's sort of a lunatic when he's around them, truth be told. 

"No shit," Belly says, his words muffled by the gauze, and then he pulls away, reaches two fingers into his mouth and pulls out one of his own teeth. 

The clip cuts out with Whits dramatically gagging in the background, and even though he was just joking around with that, Sid can't blame him: Belly ended up losing seven or eight teeth on that play, not just the one he pulled out himself. 

Sid closes the video, and when he does, there's a whole slew of responses to it sitting in his inbox, _Brutal,_ and, _Non-beauty move of the year,_ and, _Motherfucker tough as nails._

He doesn't bother responding to any of those, either. 

He’s even got an email from Shawn Hunwick, which is a first, and the note is simple: just a short explanation that he won’t be able to make it out to play hockey this season, as he got a seasonal job working as a helper elf for a mall Santa. Sid’s response is short and to the point: _Okay. Good luck, hope to see you back on the ice in the future._

The only email that proves to be of any worth is the one that he almost deletes before even opening it, because he doesn't know any JSkinners, but the subject line is _Legal Forms,_ and so he figures that maybe it's for work. 

It's not. 

_Hi Sidney,_ the body of the email reads, _I hope it's alright that I email these to you, but Eric Staal said that I needed to get a copy to you before I could play, and odds are I'll forget to bring them tomorrow. If I messed anything up, just let me know. See you, Jeff._

Attached is a completed copy of both the league's general liability waiver and the medical release form, which almost makes Sid want to laugh because he's been asking the guys to sign those for him for ages, and he can still count the ones he's actually received on two hands. Eric hasn't even filled them out, which is the most mind-boggling part, and neither has any of his brothers. 

Sidney glances at the tv; the channel has switched over to some show about the evidence for extraterrestrial life, and that, if nothing else, is a sign that it's late and he needs to go to bed. He sends Jeff a quick response— _Thanks for the forms. Let me know if you need directions to the pond, and I'll see you on the ice_ —and then he gets up, closes his laptop and leans his sticks against the wall, puts his tape back in his practice bag. 

He reminds himself to program the timer on his coffee maker for the morning, but between brushing his teeth and setting his alarm, he just… forgets. 

 

The next morning, when Sidney stumbles into Samovar half asleep and with his tie askew, Geno's not alone. There's a young girl with him behind the counter, maybe Nuge's age, and she's standing with her hip cocked to the side and her arms crossed, watching as Geno puts the day's pastries away in the case. 

"Do you actually make all of those?" she asks, loud enough that Sid can hear it, and Geno pauses for a second, shrugs. 

"Some," he says. He doesn't really seem to be in a talkative mood, and he goes back to work, lining up some sticky buns right behind the glass. The girl rolls her eyes a little, fondly. 

Then, when she notices that Sidney's in the shop, she smiles at him and says, "Good morning! What can I get you?" Her nametag is upside down on her apron and says _Ashley._

"Oh, um," Sid says. She's a lot perkier than he's ready to deal with at six-twenty. Or ever. "Good morning." 

Geno looks up at that, and when he sees Sid, he smiles. He says to Ashley, "I can do," and sort of ushers her to the side. When he does, she pulls a face that Sid doesn't really understand, and disappears into the back. 

"Good morning," Sid says again. 

"Morning," Geno replies, still smiling a little, and he guesses, "Latte, extra shot, nothing sweet?" 

"Right," he says. Geno looks good today, wearing a white Henley and a backwards baseball cap, and his eyes crinkle up when he smiles; Sidney likes that. "Please." 

Geno nods and starts doing something with the machines that results in caffeine, and as he does, he asks, "Sid, may I ask question?" 

"Sure," Sidney says, although his brain is a little bit scrambling to figure out what Geno could possibly want to ask him. 

"What do you do? For work, I mean," Geno asks, and it's such a harmless question that Sid doesn't understand why he didn't just come right out and ask it. 

"I'm a lawyer," he tells him. 

"Ah," Geno says, almost as if he were saying, _It figures._ "Work long hours?" 

"Not all the time," Sid says, and for some reason, that little white lie startles a laugh out of him. Geno smiles at him like he's in on the joke, and Sidney likes that, too. "Or—yeah, all the time. But I like it." 

"Is good," Geno agrees, "to like work." 

"And do you?" Sid asks. He doesn't mean it rudely, not in the slightest, but he could never imagine being a barista, wouldn't even want to try it for a day. “Like what you do, I mean.” 

"Of course," Geno says. "If I don’t like, why open shop?" 

It's a good point, and one that Sidney doesn't know how to respond to, and so he doesn't say anything, just shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets. If Geno minds it, he doesn't show it, and the two of them lapse into silence. 

Sid kind of wants to ask him why he left Russia, but it's none of his business and he doesn't know why it would matter to him, either way. He supposes that's just the way to keep a conversation going—just taking turns asking each other questions—but he's not exactly been stellar at those in the past, so he can't really be sure. He thinks about Eric, and how Jeff was just a stranger, and yet Eric managed to talk to him about something as important as hockey without seeming overzealous. 

Actually, he wonders if Jeff will be any good. It's horrible, Sidney knows, because they all had to start at some point, but at the same time, it's nice not having any beginners. Sidney likes not having to pull his punches any. 

Ashley pops her head in through the door, then, and says, "First timer's going off." 

"Alright. Can you take out?" Geno asks her, and when she just nods and disappears again, he shouts after her, "Use hot gloves!" 

Sid watches as Geno puts his coffee cup down on the counter by the register, and as he hands over his money, he says, "I didn't realize you made them yourself." He makes an aborted gesture to the pastries. 

"Some I make," Geno agrees, popping open the cash drawer, "but only easy ones. Today, I make _vatrushka;_ very easy. You want you try?" 

"Oh," Sid says, and the thing is, he doesn't, not really, because he has hockey that night, and if he eats poorly, he'll play poorly, and playing well is the most important thing he's got. Only he doesn't know how to say that without seeming rude, doesn't know how to say that he was only asking because he was interested in _Geno,_ and not in the pastries, and he a little bit freezes up. 

Maybe Geno can see that, though, maybe he understands, because all he does is tip his head back a little and laugh. 

"Only joking," Geno says. "I know: Lawyer Sidney allergic to sweet." 

"No, it's not—I'm not _allergic,_ " Sid tries to explain. 

"I know," Geno says, still smiling. "Sid, I _know._ "

And that—

"Oh," Sid says. "Alright." 

"Yes, alright," Geno repeats, and then he hands Sidney his change. He says, "You have good day." 

"You too," Sid says, and then because that's all he came for, he takes his coffee and leaves. His chest feels light, though, like someone placed a helium balloon inside his ribcage, and he's not entirely sure what that means, just that he doesn't want to ask Gonch about it, because Gonch will probably laugh and say that it's just adrenaline racing though his body, him reacting to the idea of playing hockey later that night. 

 

This time around, Sidney's not the first one to the farm; there's a half-assed welcoming party out again, the Edmonton College guys playing two-touch with Jared out front, ribbing him about some girl named Monica, and so Sidney doesn't even bother stopping, just waves half-heartedly and walks around to the back of the house. Marc's there again, awkwardly walking one of the goals out onto the ice with EZDZ, and when he sees Sid, he smiles in hello. 

"Sid," he yells out as Sid's opening his training bag. "Help us with the other one before you gear up?" 

"Yeah, make yourself useful," Del Zotto adds, and then he shoots a look at Sidney over his shoulder, his tongue half out of his mouth as if to convey that he was just joking. Sid thinks it's obvious that it was a joke; he does everything else for the league, practically. 

"Ask nicely and I'll consider it," Sid calls back, but he heads to the sad excuse for a shed that they keep the cages in, anyway, because the sooner everything's in place, the sooner they can be out on the ice. 

He rounds the corner, makes his way past the set of long-distance skis that are propped up against he wall, and when he enters the shed, he sees—

"I was starting to think you forgot," Giroux says. He's leaning against the bars of the cage, messing around on his phone, and when he looks up, he says, "Oh. Crosby." He nods once, not really a hello, but not really _not_ one, either. 

"Giroux," Sid says, and he nods too, because it's best to keep things civil while they still can. "Marc sent me to help with the goal." 

"Alright," Giroux says, and that's it. He grabs one end and Sidney grabs the other, and the two of them slowly back it out of the shed with small, awkward steps. They don't say anything, and they don't look at each other, and Sid supposes that Giroux's not so bad a guy, when that's the case. 

Except for how that's a huge fucking lie; Sid can't stand Giroux, and Giroux can't stand him, and it's always been like that and it always _will_ be like that. He doesn't even really know what started it, although at this point, it hardly matters, because it's not like suddenly knowing _why_ they fight will make them fight any less. It's just—Danny Briere said he was bringing this guy, his kids’ nanny, and Sid likes Danny just fine, so he thought there'd be no problem. Only Danny's guy turned out to be Giroux—asshole, hot head, showoff—and it turned out to be a disaster. 

They manage to get the cage to the side of the pond, no problem, and by the time they're stepping it out onto the ice, Sid can see that some other people are there, Kesler and Landeskog joking with Del Zotto, the Staals towering over some kid with shaggy hair that's probably Jeff Skinner. Jordan's still in his mailman uniform, and Sid wants to chirp him about that, about how he wears the shorts even in the winter because he likes to show off his skinny little chicken legs, but Sid can’t, because he's stuck with fucking _Claude._

When they put the cage down, Giroux says, "It's not centered." 

"It's on the line," Sid points out. 

"Yeah, but it's not _centered,_ " Giroux insists, and Sid has neither the time nor the patience to deal with it, and so he just walks away. 

"It's fine," he says as he goes. "Fix it if you want." And then he heads back to his gear. He's barely gotten his bag open the rest of the way when he's pulled away from it again, again by a Staal, only this time by Eric. 

"Hey, Sid," he says. "You got a sec?" 

"Sure," Sid says, and he heads over. It's weird, because he feels like he's being pulled into some sort of a moment, and he's the only one who doesn't really know what's going on. He thinks that maybe if he just projects calm and unaffected, that he'll be fine. "What's up?" 

"Just wanted to introduce you," Eric says, and he waves his hand at the new kid. "This is Jeff." 

"Oh, yeah," Sid says, and he puts his hand out, shakes Jeff's. "I got your forms. Thanks for that." 

"No problem," Jeff says, and he pushes some of his hair back off his forehead. It flops right back in his face, although he doesn't seem to notice. "Thanks for—I mean, Eric said it would be fine if I just showed up, but—"

"Yeah, no, it's fine. We love getting new guys," Sidney says, and he can't help but notice how the Staals have sort of moved about a half step away, whispering amongst themselves like he and Jeff can't easily hear them saying, _He's a total smokeshow,_ and, _Nice job, old man,_ and, _Those dimples; you're a huge fucking liar._

And then Eric says, not loud but loud _er,_ "It's really _not_ like that," and Sidney just does not want any part of it whatsoever. 

"So," he says, purposefully trying to talk over the Staals, "have you played before?" 

"No," Jeff admits. "But I did figure skating? So I can skate." 

"Okay," Sid says, because he can work with that. "Well, I mean, we're full contact, but I'm sure—"

"I'm not worried about that," Jeff interrupts, and then he smiles so fucking widely that Sidney thinks, _Oh, dimples,_ and then feels like an idiot for it. 

"He's not worried about a little _contact,_ " Marc says to his brothers. 

"Good," Sid says to Jeff, ignoring Marc. "Lace up then, I guess." And then he turns to Eric, says, "You can captain, if you want. That way you can pick him and show him the ropes." 

"Yeah, Eric," Jordan says, his voice completely serious. "Don't you want to pick him?" 

"Show him the ropes?" Jared adds, just as seriously, and that—none of it _feels_ serious, and Sidney is done. He's here to play hockey, not babysit or match-make or referee, or whatever the hell he's sort of doing. 

"Put on some gear, or I'm making you play in those," he says to Jordan, motioning towards his perfectly pressed, navy blue shorts and his short-sleeved button-up. It makes no sense and it's such a non sequitur, but it makes Jeff laugh, loud and unrestrained, and _that_ makes the Staals laugh, and so Sidney leaves feeling pretty pleased with himself, all things considered. 

 

The thing about playing hockey is that it gets his heart pumping every time. It gets his adrenaline going and makes his body ache and makes him feel just so fucking happy in the exact same way, every single time. But the other thing about hockey—the important thing—is that the _game_ is always completely different, one hundred percent of the time: the puck never bounces the same way, the ice never feels flat in the same way, and the goals are never, ever scored in the same way. And that's what makes it great. 

Sidney ends up on what is essentially Team Staal, attempting to man a line with Jeff and Eric for the first half, and it's alright, even though they're kind of terrible; they're not _completely_ terrible, though, because Jeff really can skate, and he puts up with a lot of chirping, things like BizNasty demanding to see an axel jump, and Sharpy wondering if he still fits into his outfits. Jeff just laughs and humors them, and so Sid thinks he's pretty okay. 

Flower's on the other team, too, which is excellent, because as much as Sid loves having Flower on his team, he loves scoring on him just as much. Flower makes him really work for it, and Sidney likes that; he likes earning the things he gets. 

"Hey, motherfucker," Flower calls out after making a pretty impressive glove save. "What do you think this is, amateur hour?" 

"I dunno, are you getting paid?" Sid chirps back, skating away for a line change. He heads towards the benches that were just sort of haphazardly tossed out there for them to sit on, and as they switch lines, Giroux skates out and collides with Sidney, their shoulders knocking. 

Sid doesn't say anything, and Giroux doesn't say anything, and maybe that's for the best. 

He sits down on the end of the bench next to Bryzgalov, who's not playing this game but who is taking up bench space anyways, and he watches Toews and Kaner on the ice. The way they move—it's hard to look away, and Sidney's at once impressed and envious. They're just so in sync, in a way that Sid's never seen before, passing the puck without even looking to see if the other is there, setting up intricate plays with the jerk of a chin, as if they shared a hive mind. They argue, too, all the time—"Fucking _pass to me,_ " Tazer yells, and Kane just yells back, "Then get fucking open and _I will_ "—but it doesn't seem to change anything, or create any hard feelings. 

John Moore's the one stuck on a line with them, and when they score for the third time without the puck so much as touching his tape, he turns to everyone on the bench and, with his arms spread wide, jokes, "Am I even relevant right now?" 

"No," Hallsy shouts back. 

"So go home!" Nuge yells, and next to them, Ebs just laughs and laughs. 

Someone taps Sid in the shoulder then, but when he turns around, all he sees is Eric, Jeff, and Jordan talking with their heads bent close together. Sid turns back to the ice just in time to see Flower gesture rudely at EZDZ when he feels someone tap his shoulder again. 

He turns around, but there's still no one there, and it's really juvenile, and he just—

"Hey," someone hisses. Sidney looks down the line, and it's Ovie, leaning back with his stick held out so he can tap Sid with it again. "Hey, Crosby," he says when he's got Sid's attention. "You and Claude fight like women, using words only. You should pretend to be real men; you feel better after fight." 

His smile only gets wider when Sid rolls his eyes and says, "That's not really how I do things." 

Bryz apparently agrees, because then he speaks up, "It's crazy to fight over such small things. The universe is just so humongous big, it's like, why worry? This problem? It's like—nothing." 

"Yeah, I know," Sid assures him. "I'm not going to; don't worry about it." 

Which, of course, only makes everything that happens that much worse. 

It happens in pieces, and starts small. First, what happens is that Sid strips Giroux of the puck, and winds up taking it up through two defenders for an insanely gorgeous goal. Giroux says something to him afterwards in French, which he knows Sidney hardly knows, and so if he's still speaking it, they must be some pretty choice words. 

"Shut the fuck up," Sid says to him, skating past, and Giroux just responds with, " _Mange ma bite._ "

Then, there's a stoppage in play where Sidney goes to talk to the linesman—Simmonds—and for some reason, Giroux's glove is on the ice. Sid watches as Giroux bends down to pick it up, but just before he's able to, Sid knocks it farther out of reach with the end of his stick. Giroux straightens, looks Sid in the eyes, and says, "You better cut it the fuck out," and Sid just shrugs, nonchalantly responds, "I'll see how I feel." 

So it's not a big surprise, really, when things between them just get rougher and rougher, their words fouler and fouler, until finally, they're on one of the last face-offs of the night, and Sid calls him a pussy. Simmonds drops the puck, and instead of going for it, Giroux just bashes his stick out against Sid's hands, his wrist, and Sid knows what he’s doing. Giroux still thinks that when Sid hit his wrists last year, that it was on purpose, and so he’s trying to get even. Sid doesn't know who won the face-off or where the puck goes; all he knows is that he's so fucking sick of everything about Giroux that he's dropping his stick, fisting the front of Giroux's sweater, and punching him in the face. 

It's—Sid's not good at this, at fighting, but he gives as good as he gets, which is the important thing. And he knows he played a part in all of it, in egging Giroux on, but Giroux purposefully went for Sid's hands, which now hurt like a bitch, and so he doesn't care that maybe he shouldn't be fighting. Sid had batted away Giroux's helmet and called him a pussy; Giroux went in with his stick, with the intention of causing damage. It's not the same thing, and Sid won't let Giroux walk away thinking it is. 

They're eventually pulled apart by Hartnell and Gonch, which only makes everything worse, and as they do, Giroux taunts him, "Yeah, real tough, Crosby, real tough." 

And that—

"I can't believe Briere lets you near his kids, you complete psycho," Sid says, and he probably shouldn't, but he's so fucking fed up, so fucking _mad,_ that mostly he just likes getting to watch his words land, watch Giroux try to pull away from Hartnell like he wants to rip Sid's arms off. 

Sid just shakes his head and turns away as Danny skates over, speaking to Giroux in rapid French. Sid doesn't care, just says to whoever’s listening, "Where the fuck is BizNasty?" His wrist is puffed and purpling, the two smallest fingers on his left hand already black and blue. 

 

Flower waits with him in Marc's living room while BizNasty patches Giroux up outside, and he's still got his pads on, his mask pushed back on his head. He's a good friend, and he _knows_ Sid, and so he doesn't talk for a long time, just lets Sid stew until he sees something that says Sid's done. 

Sid doesn't know what that something is, but eventually Flower asks, "So how was it? You feeling good about it?" 

"No," Sid says automatically, but then because that was a blatant lie, he corrects, "Yes. He's an asshole; I don't like him." 

"I never said you did," Flower says, and then he looks around at Marc's furniture, at how everything matches and fits. "You think this guy had a decorator?" 

"Doubt it," Sid says. And then after a beat, "Fuck, I shouldn't have done that." 

"Other guys fight all the time." 

"Other guys," Sid repeats. He runs a hand through his hair and asks, "How big of an asshole did I look?" 

"What scale am I grading this on?" Flower asks, and he laughs when Sid shoots him a look. "Well, you did maybe a little bit imply that he was a lunatic that would hurt Briere's kids." 

Sid groans, sinks further down into the couch and moans, "No." 

Flower ignores him and continues, "So, yeah, a bit of an asshole, but _I've_ never been more proud. Giroux's a douche." 

Sid thinks about saying something back, something about how he has to set a better example if he wants to keep running this thing, but then BizNasty walks in with his little first aid kit, and so Sid doesn't say anything. 

"Alright, Buttercup," Biz says, sitting down on the coffee table across from him, "let's take a look at you." He puts on fresh gloves, presses gauze against the cut on Sidney's lip. 

And then Flower, as if reading Sid's mind, says, "I can't believe people let you handle their injuries." 

"Stranger things have happened," BizNasty says with a shrug. "People let you handle their money." And then to Sidney, "Any loose teeth?" 

Sid pokes around in his mouth with his tongue, presses it into the back of each tooth, and then says, "No." 

"Awesome," Biz says, and then he focuses his attention on Sid’s wrist. He rotates Sid’s hand, gauges the pain by the reaction on Sid’s face, and then says, "Look at that bruising, jeez. He got you good, huh?” 

“No,” Sid says flatly. 

“I’m just saying,” Biz defends himself. “But good news is, your wrist isn't broken; you're just gonna want to ice the shit out of it tonight." 

Sid nods and asks, "What about my fingers?" 

"They'll be okay," BizNasty says. "We'll just buddy tape them together for a week, you'll be fine. Thank god Varly's the pianist and not you, am I right?" 

Flower busts out laughing at that, which Sid doesn't exactly appreciate. 

Later, when about half the guys have headed out and Sid's back outside packing up, Ovie claps him on the back like they're friends now—like any of that fight was because of what he said on the bench—and he says, "See you later, Sid." 

"Yeah, sure," Sid says, because— _what?_ But on the ride home, he mostly just can't help but marvel over how Ovie was actually right. Sid's face is pounding and his left hand is essentially useless, and he's got a bag of Marc's frozen peas wrapped around his wrist with sock tape, but he feels _better._ He still hates Giroux, and he still is a little embarrassed at how things went down, but he's feeling good about hockey and life and himself, and it's crazy how it works like that. 

Sid's not big on fighting, but he can't deny that it makes him feel alive. 

Back home, Sidney tosses the peas and grabs a gel pack from his freezer instead. He collapses with it in bed, but then the guilt sort of creeps in and so he pads into the living room to grab his laptop before heading back to the bedroom. 

The email is easy to find, the phone number even easier than that, and he makes himself dial it before he can come to his senses. 

It rings twice and then, "Hello?" The voice is breathless, like maybe he ran for the phone, and then Sidney remembers what time it is, remembers that Danny has young kids. 

"Hi, uh," Sid says, caught by surprise. "Is Giroux there?" 

There's a pause that's just long enough for Sid to think they have a bad connection, and then Danny says, "Sidney?" 

"Yeah." 

"Oh," Danny says, surprised. "Yeah, I guess. Hold on." 

There's a minute or two of silence after that, during which Sidney bites the skin around his nails and assumes that Danny's got his hand covering the receiver as he argues with Giroux on whether or not he should take the call. If Sid's honest, he doesn't care much either way, because at least he _tried._ But then—

"What do you want?" And that's Giroux, alright. 

Sid opens his mouth to apologize, not for hitting him but for what he said after, but what actually comes out is, "You know you listed Danny's number as your number?" 

"I live here," Giroux says, as if it were obvious. 

"Oh. Right," Sid says. He knew that, vaguely. Probably. 

"Look, is that all?" Giroux snaps. "I'm really not in the mood—"

"No," Sid interrupts. "I mean, that's not all. That's not even why I called. I just wanted to say that I know... that you wouldn't. It was sort of out of line for me to suggest that, or to even bring them up at all." 

There's another pause where neither of them says anything after that, and Sid thinks that maybe he just made everything worse, that maybe he should just hang up and call it a night. But then Giroux says, "Alright," like he means, _Apology accepted,_ and, "I still fucking hate you," like he means, _I still fucking hate you,_ and Sid just laughs. 

Giroux hangs up on him, and Sid's asleep in minutes. 

 

Sidney’s still in a good mood by the next morning. He showers and brushes his teeth while the bathroom’s still all fogged up, and then he eats a plate of scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast while standing over the sink, barefoot and in his work slacks, his belt still undone. He finishes getting dressed afterwards, throws on a shirt and does up his cufflinks, and then, even though he doesn’t really need to because he slept like the dead, Sidney goes to Samovar. 

The café is still pretty empty when he gets there, the morning rush not yet having arrived, and the only people besides him are sitting at a table off to the side, by the window. Geno’s there, behind the bar, wearing a plaid shirt that’s unbuttoned at the neck; Sid can’t look away, almost, because he wants to know what pendants are on Geno’s necklaces, what they mean and who they’re from. The skin of his neck is smooth and tanned, and Sidney just stands there staring until Geno sees him and smiles. 

“Morning, Geno,” he says, smiling back, bringing a hand up in a gesture sort of resembling a wave. He heads closer to the counter, and as he does, Geno’s smile just completely drops, and Sid feels weird about that, like he wants to know what he did so he never does it again. 

“Sid,” Geno says softly, his brows knitted together and the corners of his mouth downturned. “What happen?” Sid has no clue what he’s talking about, so he sort of turns and looks behind him, and around at the shop, but everything seems to be in its place. 

“Uh. Nothing?” Sid says like it’s a question. 

Geno just places his palms on the countertop and leans some weight into his hands. He doesn’t stop looking at Sidney the whole time, and when he speaks again, it’s in the same sort of voice as earlier, like the rug has been pulled out from underneath him. 

“Is not _nothing,_ Sid. Who hurt you?” 

“What?” Sid asks, because he’s not—nobody hurt him, what’s Geno talking about? Only then he puts his hands out in a gesture meant to placate, and there are his fingers, taped together, his hand all black and blue. And just like that, Sid remembers what he must look like, with a busted lip and an aching jaw. He just… forgot. It’s just a part of hockey. “Oh.” 

“Yeah, _oh,_ ” Geno says. “If someone hit—if you have problem with—” He makes a frustrated face, says a few words in Russian, and then continues, “I don’t know how you call it, but—”

“Geno,” Sid interrupts. “It’s—I’m fine. I just, I play hockey. Sometimes. It’s fine.” 

The surprise on Geno’s face is—well, Sidney doesn’t like it. He knows what people think about hockey—about the crazy on-ice deaths that have happened, about the fights and the mentality and everything—but he doesn’t _understand_ it, and he never will. 

Geno doesn’t say anything, still looking at Sid like he doesn’t know him, or maybe like he knows him too well, and so Sid says, “So. Just the latte for me, I guess.” 

“You play hockey?” Geno finally asks, ignoring Sid’s order. “How long?” 

“I don’t know. Forever,” Sidney says, because that’s as close to the truth as he’s going to get. 

Geno smiles in a whole new way, a way that shows off all his teeth and is so goofy that it looks like he couldn’t hold it back if he tried. 

“ _I_ play hockey,” Geno says, and then he pulls a face, waves his hand as he continues, “When I live back in Russia. Always play, all the time, but here? No one talk about hockey, and I think no one—”

“We play,” Sid says quickly, and he’s sort of at embarrassing levels of excited for this, feeling it in the pit of his stomach and up through his chest although he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t even think about it when he says, “Play with us,” just like that, not even a question. 

“Okay,” Geno answers just as quickly, and then he laughs a little under his breath. “Sorry. I see you, I think maybe you are in fight or something.” 

“I was,” Sid tells him. “But it’s okay.” 

Geno rolls his eyes and shakes his head, and he says, “No, I think _fight,_ not _hockey,_ ” and Sid really, really likes that, how Geno understands that there’s a difference. 

Geno turns around, gets to making Sidney’s drink, but he keeps looking over his shoulder as he does, like he’s suddenly seeing Sid in a whole new light. Sid just smiles, watches him back. 

He says, “Do you have skates? Here, I mean, not in Russia. Because I can ask the guys.” 

“I have,” Geno says. “Skate sometimes at local rink, but is not same without stick, without puck.” 

“Yeah,” Sid says. “Well, we play just pick-up games, but it’s a few times a week if you want—if you want to give me your email address? I can just add you to the list.” 

“Okay,” Geno says, and he grabs the sharpie off of the counter. “I’ll write on cup.” He scribbles on the side, careful not to spill, a look of extreme concentration on his face. When he’s done, he hands the coffee to Sidney and says, “Today the day for _pirozhki_?”

“Still no,” Sid says, although this time it feels less like he’s insulting Geno, and more like it’s an inside joke. Geno must feel the same way, because he laughs, loud and unrestrained, and when Sid tries to hand him a five, he shakes his head. 

“Coffee on house today,” he says. 

“No, seriously,” Sid tells him, trying to shove the money at him. “It’s not a big deal, I can—”

“I know, Sidney,” Geno says. “Today, you can pay in hockey email.” 

“Oh. Well.” Sid supposes he can do that. He tries not to laugh. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Geno repeats, and Sid is just so—it’s crazy, but he’s just so fucking _excited_ to get Geno out on the ice that he has to leave before he says something stupid. 

 

“What do you mean, he plays hockey?” Gonch asks. He's back in Sidney’s office, sitting on one of the armchairs with his legs crossed at the ankles, waiting for his ten-fifteen appointment to show up. Sidney looks at him and thinks maybe he made a mistake, choosing corporate law. 

“I don’t know,” Sid says, shuffling through some papers and returning back to paying minimal attention to Gonch. “Just that he plays hockey, I don’t know.” 

“Does he know Ovie?” 

“What does—why would he know Ovie?” Sid asks. 

“Because they’re both Russian, and they both play hockey,” Gonch points out. 

Sid puts his papers down and, looking at him, says, “ _You’re_ Russian; _you_ play hockey.” 

“And I know Zhenya,” Gonch reminds him. “He’s my barista.” 

Sid pushes away from his desk and lets his head fall back over his chair. It wouldn’t exactly be _worst case_ scenario if he knew Ovie, but it would pretty close, because then maybe Geno would expect Sid to be friendlier with Ovie, or maybe they’d all have to go get dinner together, and—Sid doesn’t even know why he’s thinking this way. Sid barely _knows_ Geno. He and Geno don’t even go out to dinner as it is; why would they go out to dinner with Ovie? Also, if Geno already knew Ovie, wouldn’t he already have known about Sid’s hockey league? None of what Gonch is saying makes any sense. 

Sid voices this to Gonch, too, says, “If he knew Ovie, he’d be playing with us already.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Gonch says, half laughing, “but I like watching your face do that thing.” 

“What thing?” 

“That thing where—” Gonch waves his hands in front of his own face, “—it’s almost like you don’t know how to handle emotions.” 

“I know how to handle emotions,” Sid tells him. “If you can’t handle emotions, you can’t be a lawyer.” 

“Yes, yes,” Gonch says, exactly like he’s just humoring Sid, “and if you’re going to spend your time doing something, you make sure that you’re good at it.” And then, purposefully changing the subject back, he asks, “Have you emailed Zhenya yet?” 

“No,” Sid says. “I don’t know if you’ve realized this, but I’m in the middle of a multi-billion dollar horizontal merger, so while I’m at work, I’m actually trying to work.” 

Gonch sighs like his life is a hardship and stands up, says, “Alright, I can take a hint. But look, let me just type up an email to Zhenya that you can save in your drafts and think about sending later. It’ll make you sound like a real person.” And then, at Sid’s hesitance, he adds, “I don’t even have his email address, so it’s not like I can send it.” 

Sid thinks on it for a minute and then slides his laptop over. He says, “Fine,” like it’s such a hardship, but the truth is, he has no clue what to say to Geno, and he could use the help. Which is ridiculous, because he emailed Jeff no problem, and he knew Jeff even less than he knows Geno, at that point. Sid doesn’t know what that’s about, but it’s not hurting anything and so he doesn’t let it bother him. 

Gonch straightens up a few minutes later and, with one final keystroke, says, “There. And now I have a meeting, so I’ll see you later.” 

And then Gonch waltzes out of the room and is gone. 

It’s all very strange—stranger than usual, anyways—and Sid stares at the empty doorway for a minute or two just trying to figure out what about it is off. He looks to his computer, and then his eyes drift over to his coffee cup right next to it, and—

No. No, no, no, Gonch wouldn’t. Except he _would._ Sid dives for his laptop, tugs it close and clicks on the link for his sent box, and there it is, right at the top: an email sent to Evgeni Malkin, not even three minutes ago. 

“You complete bastard,” Sid says under his breath, and then since he figures it’s just like ripping off a band-aid, he clicks on it. 

_Hi Geno,_ the email starts. _It’s Sid, from the coffee shop._ And that—Sid would never; Geno knows who he fucking is. _Just wanted to let you know that we’re meeting up to play some hockey on Saturday morning, if you’re interested? There’s some forms you’ll need to sign, but I’ll get those to you later. The pond is a ways out, so you’re welcome to catch a ride with me, if you want. Just let me know. Sidney._

And that—

It’s not as bad as it could have been, Sidney will give Gonch that much, but at the same time, he’d never have offered Geno a ride. What would he even have to talk about with Geno for an hour each way? Sid hardly knows the guy. It’s just sort of a disaster, even though it’s not the end of the world, and Sid’s determined to throttle Gonch the next time he sees him. 

Typical family lawyer, though; Sid admits, he should have seen it coming. 

 

It's weird, how Sid's so on edge after that; it's all he can think about, what Geno'll say in response to the email, and he doesn't even know why. Geno's just some barista from down the street; either he'll come or he won't, he'll be good or he won't, and he'll take Sid up on his offer for a ride or he won't, and that's all there is to it. 

Sid doesn’t hear back from Geno by the time he goes to sleep, and he avoids Samovar the next morning, just because it’s a potentially awkward confrontation that he doesn’t want to deal with. It was kind of forward, he thinks, offering a ride to someone he doesn’t really know like that. Plus he's exhausted, having sat up in bed reading over contracts for longer than he meant to, and work isn't taking it easy on him when he gets back to the office. His secretary has a million calls that he needs to return, a new client for him to meet, and an old client who needs his services again, and come one o'clock, Sidney is so exhausted that he gives in, heads down to the coffee shop the next break he gets. Besides, it'll be good, he figures, to just sort of bite the bullet and get seeing Geno over with, but also to grab some coffee. 

When he opens the door to Samovar, he's greeted by the kind of crowd he's not used to seeing there, as he usually drops in early in the morning: a grand total of four people, three of whom are sitting around in overstuffed armchairs—a college-aged girl and an elderly couple. The fourth—a guy wearing scratched, black-framed reading glasses and a newsboy cap—is standing up, a ceramic mug with a teabag string hanging out in one hand, and a black Moleskine notebook in the other. 

Sid knows him, but not well enough to go over and say hello; his name's Roberto Luongo, and he's dropped by their old pond a few times, played goalie without a mask until Henrik made him put one on. 

" _Byfuglien,_ " Luongo says in a deep voice, and the young girl glances up at him briefly before returning to her book. 

Sid glances at the empty barista counter, but Geno's probably in the back, finishing up with some baked goods, and so he just waits. Sid's there, but he's not exactly in a rush to _see_ Geno, not really. 

"Human eclipse," Luongo's saying. "Rhinoceros hips. Who will laugh last when I slash your calf? Bring me peace; make it cease; get your big ass out of my crease." 

The girl doesn't look up from her book again, but the old couple sharing a cup of coffee and a pastry claps a little, and Sid feels like maybe he should add his own half-hearted clap into the mix. He does, and it feels just as awkward and just as half-hearted as he had anticipated. Luongo tips his hat at him, and Sid nods back. 

"Hi!" someone says, sort of perky, and Sid doesn't think it's directed towards him, but he turns around anyway, and there's Ashley, smiling at him with her hair up in a bun. "What can I get you?" 

"Uh," Sid says blankly, and in the background, her hears Luongo say, _This next one is called Love Letter._ "Is Geno here?" 

"Sorry," Ashley says, shaking her head. "He switched to the morning shift a while ago. Can I leave a message on his desk for you?" 

"No," Sid says quickly, because he's still waiting for Geno to write back, and so leaving another message would be—just no. 

"Alright," Ashley says easily, like she doesn’t care either way, and when she follows that up by asking, "Can I get you anything to drink?" Sidney's pretty relieved. Coffee he can do. 

"A latte," he says, and then each word after comes out like he's only just remembering them. "Large. Skim. Please." 

"Sure thing," she says, and she sets about making his drink. Sidney looks around, and it's all exactly how it he remembers it looking from the day before, and so nothing catches his eye or keeps him occupied. 

He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and looks towards the employee door, the one behind the counter and that hides all the ovens. He wonders, vaguely, what it looks like back there; he's never been in a kitchen, not a business one, and hardly spends any time in his own kitchen as it is. 

Sid wonders if Geno cooks other stuff, too, or if he only knows how to make pastries. EZDZ cooks a lot, but that's just big batches of simple stuff for the other guys down at the firehouse, and while Tavares can cook almost any kind of pasta, even fancy dishes, he can't cook anything else to save his life, and Beau once almost burnt down Nealer's house by tossing water on an electrical fire started by Nealer's shitty toaster, so. Sid thinks that playing hockey automatically means being cursed with terrible culinary skills. He's certainly affected by it. 

"Latte for Sidney," Ashley calls out, startling Sid out of his thoughts, and she hands him over a paper cup as he pays. 

"Thanks," he says, holding up his drink a little, as if there were any confusion over why he was thanking her. She's nice enough; he's surprised she remembered his name. 

Sid heads out of the coffee shop, sending one last glance towards the employee back room, and lets the door close behind him just as Luongo is introducing his next poem, _Twins._

His phone buzzes in his pocket on the walk back to his office, but Sid doesn't bother to check it. If it's for work, they'll call his desk, but if not, he's got a lot to do: more contracts to draft up and another meeting between Stastny and Sakic to mediate, and so he's fairly certain he's got another long night ahead of him. 

Sid takes a sip of coffee. At least it's good. 

 

The rest of the night is every bit as horrible as Sidney had imagined it would be. Or—the night is not horrible, just that it's all happening _at night_ is what sucks. Sidney loves his job, he really does, and he's fucking _good_ at it, but he likes sleeping, too, likes watching tv from his treadmill. As it is, he's behind his desk all night, loses his jacket around seven and his tie around ten, makes a pot of shitty office coffee at eight and eleven. It's not glamorous by any means, but they pay him insanely well and give him ridiculous bonuses, and he can afford to buy himself nice skates and his mom a nice car. Sidney really can't complain. 

Plus, seeing as no one else is in the office, Sidney doesn't really feel that bad checking his personal email every now and then. It's not—he's not really _expecting_ anything, but there are always mindless hockey emails going around, and while he used to just ignore them, he doesn't anymore, at least not since that whole blowout with Kesler and Ladd a few years back. Sid has learned from that one. 

Starting at the bottom and working his way up, Sid clicks on an email from John Tavares. It's short, to everyone, and just says, _Set up lights at Marc's. Friendly reminder: a puck to my lights is a puck to your stones. JT._ Which—fair enough, Sid supposes. Tavares is their resident electrician, and he agreed to hook the pond up with lights for free; if someone fucks with that out of carelessness, it's not really Sid's place to determine the price. 

Sid drains the rest of his coffee and rubs his eyes with two closed fists before moving onto the next email. It's from Ryan Whitney, and clearly sent while he was still at work, if the _americanusedcars_ email address domain is any indication. _Ladislav Smid finally sold his first car today, the email says. We set up an office for him to negotiate the sale, but I don't think he knew he was in an elevator._ Attached is a photo of Ladi, clearly fucking around, sitting in an elevator that has been decked out with two chairs, a phone, a table, a trashcan, and an iPad. 

Sid stares at it for a second and thinks it's no wonder it took Ladi almost four months to sell a car. 

He deletes the email, opens and responds to the one from Flower asking about getting lunch next week, then goes to open the next one and—but that's it, there are no other emails. Sid stares at his computer for a second, wiggles his pen back and forth between his fingertips, before finally giving up. He closes his laptop and goes back to pouring over clause after clause of this fucking gigantic contract. 

This whole Geno thing was a long shot, anyways. Who's to say he'd even have been any good? It's probably better this way, Sid figures, because at least this way he doesn't have to drive there and back with a complete stranger—with his _barista_ —who says he played in Russia but probably is just junk on skates and can't hit a slap shot to save his—

Junk mail. 

Maybe—?

Sid throws his laptop open again, heads to his inbox and clicks on _spam,_ and right there, right at the top, an email from Evgeni Malkin received just a few hours after Gonch sent his. 

Sid _knew_ it. He had a feeling about Geno, and Geno's going to come through for him, going to be so fucking amazing on the ice, and Sid knows it as sure as he's known anything. He clicks on the email. 

_Hello Sid!_ it starts, and Sid can almost hear it in Geno's voice. _I am very excited for hockey... Still cannot believe you play! Small world. Ride to pond best, if is okay with you. Maybe we meet at Samovar? I bring pirozhki for snack. (Joke.) Geno. ___

And that—okay, not so bad. So Sid has to give him a ride, that's nothing. It'll be fine so long as they don't get into it on the ice, and Sid doubts they will, so. And Geno likes to talk, it seems, so Sid can just let him carry the conversation, no problem.

He clicks _respond,_ and puts his fingers on the keys to type. 

_Hey, Geno, it was great to hear from you_ —Sid starts, and then deletes it because that's not something he'd ever say. 

_Hi Geno, sorry it took me so long to respond, but_ —but a day and a half isn't exactly long, and so Sid deletes that, too. 

It's fucking ridiculous, is what it is, because Sid's acting like he's never written an email before. He writes emails all the time; this is no different. It's just Geno, just some hockey player. Maybe if Gonch were here, he'd—but Gonch is the reason Sid's in this mess in the first place, so maybe not. 

_Geno,_ Sid finally settles on. _Glad to hear you can make it. Bring your gear and I'll meet you at Samovar tomorrow at nine a.m. Puck drops at ten. Sid. PS- No pirozhki._

He hits send and then sits back in his chair. That was easy. Tomorrow, nine a.m. 

He can do that. 

 

Sid picks Geno up outside of Samovar the next morning, running on three hours of sleep and absolutely no caffeine. He could have sworn he set his coffee maker before he went to sleep, but apparently not, as the pot was empty when Sidney zombie-shuffled into his kitchen, showered and only half-dressed. 

Geno looks awake, though, when Sid pulls up; he's wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt, a baseball hat pulled down low over his eyes, and he's holding a tray with two Samovar to-go cups in one hand. When the car stops, Geno opens the passenger-side door and hands Sidney the coffee. 

"One for you," he says smiling, bent over with his head halfway inside. "Good, too, because you look like you need." 

Sid reaches out on autopilot and takes the coffee, puts one in a cup holder and brings the other to his mouth to take a sip. It's hot, but not too hot, and good in a way that only Geno's coffee has been; Sid's pretty sure he lets out a satisfied moan, which is embarrassing, but Geno just laughs and then ducks back out of the car to toss his gear in the back, and so Sid doesn't think much of it. 

"Uh. You ready?" he asks when Geno's finally seated in the front, his seatbelt fastened. 

Geno doesn't say anything, just smiles and nods as he goes to take a sip of his own coffee, and so Sid puts the car into drive and pulls away from the curb. He looks at Geno out of the corner of his eye, at how his fingers tap a rhythm out on his knee and at how he's still sort of smiling as he looks out the window, and he looks exactly how Sidney feels every time he’s heading out to play. 

"So," Sid says. It frustrates him to have to be the one who starts the conversation, because he's not any good at this. English isn't Geno's native language, and even he's better at this than Sid. "What position do you usually play?" 

"Center," Geno says, and before Sid can say, _Me too,_ he continues, "Right wing, left wing, defense. Just want to be on ice. But center best." 

"Yeah," Sid says, because Geno gets it. And then because he finally has the opening, "Me too. I, uh. I hope you like it, tonight. There's a lot of guys, but most of them are alright, and we've even got a few Russians, not that I think you should—you know. Not that I think you should just be friends with the Russians." 

Geno laughs a little and looks at Sid like he's missed an obvious play, and he says, "If you like, I'm sure I will like. Besides, just because Russian doesn't mean they can keep up." 

Sid feels some of the tension ease out of his shoulders at that, and so he jokes, "Yeah, Russians aren't very good at hockey." 

"We see, we see," Geno says. "You say you play hockey long time?" 

"Yeah," Sid says, and this—this is really great. Geno just wants to talk about hockey, and Sid _can_ talk about hockey, and so none of it is really as bad as he had worried. "Since before I can remember; my dad played when he was younger, and, uh—he was a goalie. I thought I wanted to be a goalie, too, until the first time I shot a puck into the clothes dryer." 

And that—it's weird, because Sid doesn't know if he's ever told anyone that before. It's not that it's a secret or anything, but just that he doesn't usually talk much, doesn't usually _share._ He doesn't know how to feel about it, now that it's said and done. 

"You not crazy enough for goalie," Geno says. "Have to be really crazy." 

"I guess," Sid says, but he thinks of Flower and Bryz, and they're both absolutely nuts, so he agrees. "What about you?" 

"Only ever wanted center," Geno says. "I like score too much." 

And yeah, that's what Sid learned about himself, too. 

"So you played in a league in Russia?" he asks. 

Geno shrugs and takes a second before answering, "Yes, had league, but many problems, too. Not everybody like, too many fights, and one guy—it was accident, but skate—" He motions his hand across his neck, and every but of Sidney just freezes up, and he thinks, well, fuck, he really stuck his foot in it this time. He should just never speak again. "I wasn't there, didn't know guy, but. League stopped." 

"Oh," Sidney says, and in his mind, every single _Abort_ sign is flashing. He thinks, of fucking course he goes and says the one thing he shouldn't, and now things are going to get awkward and he's going to have to stop getting coffee at Samovar, and he really _likes_ going to Samovar, because the coffee is good and it breaks up his day, lets him stretch his legs, and so he just says the first thing that comes to mind to change the subject: "Coffee!" 

"What?" Geno asks, and Sid can't even look at him, just stares at the road as they drive closer and closer to Marc's farm. 

"Have you always wanted to have a coffee shop?" Sid tries again. "Is coffee your, um. You know." 

Geno laughs, loud and clear, and Sid can't help it, darts his eyes over to look at him for just a second. His head is tipped back a little, and he's looking at Sid like he thinks Sid's funny, and not like he's laughing at him. 

Sid tries to hide his own smile by turning back towards the road. 

"Coffee not my _passion,_ Sid," Geno says. "I like coffee, but _hockey_ is passion. Coffee is just in between." 

And that—

"Yeah," Sid says. "Yeah, me too. With law, though. Not coffee." 

It's just strange, that's all, how similar Geno can be to him while simultaneously being nothing like him at all. 

 

By the time they pull into Marc's, they're not _late,_ but carpooling did take longer than usual and so there are definitely cars there before them. The usual welcoming committee is missing, but in their place is Duper and Ryan Whitney, sitting on the front steps, simultaneously eating apples. 

Sid and Geno climb out of the car, and when they do, Whits rags on Sid by calling out, "Better late than never, maestro!" 

Sid rolls his eyes and, knowing what's expected of him, shoots back, "Shouldn't you be out selling cars, trying to catch up to Ladi's record of _one_?"

"Oh, ha ha," Ryan says. "Everyone's a comedian who doesn't—" He cuts himself off and then just says to himself, "Fuck my life." 

Sid laughs a little, but Geno looks between the two of them like he's trying to figure out if they're just chirping or not, and lets out a breath that flutters his lips a little and puffs out his cheeks. That's when Sid realizes that he's being a horrible host, of sorts, and he’s about to introduce Geno when Duper speaks up. 

"Who's this?" he asks, taking a bit of his apple and then motioning towards Geno with the core. 

"Uh. This is Geno," Sid says. "Geno, this is Ryan and Duper." He hefts his gear bag higher up on his shoulder and then says, "See you guys back there." 

He looks at Geno and then jerks his head towards the side of the house, and Geno must get what he means, because he waves a little, says, "Nice to meet you," and then follows Sid around to the pond. 

"Not so bad," he says to Sid as they walk. "Seem like okay guys." 

"Don't worry if you can't remember all their names," he says. "There's a lot of them, and only one of you, and they'll still probably forget your name, so." 

Geno smiles a little, appears to loosen up, and he says, "I not _worry,_ Sid. Is just polite to know name before I destroy on ice." He shoots Sid a goofy look, one that's just between the two of them and that Sid doesn't know the meaning of, and their shoulders knock together as they walk. 

"Alright, well, brace yourself," he says, and they round the corner of the house to the pond. A lot of the guys are still standing around or gearing up, but two or three are out warming up on the ice, and Sid looks at Geno, watching his face as he stares out at the pond. His eyes are wide and his mouth his open, and he just stands there, completely taken by it. It makes Sid wish he'd asked how long it's been since Geno last played, because he's looking at the ice like it's been ages. 

Walking over to the rest of the guys, Sid explains to him how they choose the teams and the refs, stopping to introduce him to Carts and Richie as they pass. They put their gear bags down, and then Sid walks him around, introducing him to everyone else, name and position, that kind of thing. Geno's strangely quiet compared to how he normally is, but this is a lot to handle, and he keeps shooting Sid these little smiles, so Sid thinks he's okay. 

"And this is Marc," Sid says when he makes his way over to the Staals. He tries to give Geno a little more to go off of than just his name, because Marc's done a lot for the league. "He plays defense, and this is his farm; he actually made the pond." 

"Really?" Geno says, surprised, but Sid supposes he didn't really give Geno much information on that going in. "Pond looks great, is awesome." 

"And these are the Staals," Sid continues, motioning to them. "And this is Jeff, Eric's... boyfriend?" 

"We're not dating," Eric stresses, and Jeff just shakes his head and laughs. 

"Yeah, we jumped to conclusions, earlier," Jared admits. 

"Sorry about that," Jordan adds, but he doesn’t sound like he means it in the slightest. 

Sid just stares at them momentarily and then glances at Geno, who looks just as overwhelmed as he did when meeting Ryan and Duper, and just as confused over the Staals as Sid feels. 

"Right," Sid says. "Anyways, so I guess we should just—"

"Sidney Crosby," someone says, slinging an arm around him. Sid tries shrugging his shoulders to dislodge the arm, but it's Ovie, and he just holds on tighter, leaving Sid standing there, extra tense. He doesn't like people casually touching him, and Ovie knows it. "Who is your new friend?" 

"Um. This is Geno," Sid says. "Geno, this is Ovie." And then, even though he doesn't want to, and even though it's immediately apparent once he speaks, Sid adds, "Geno's from Russia, too." 

"Oh?" Ovie asks, his eyebrows sliding up towards his hairline as he smiles, and Geno just shrugs, smiles a little right back. Which is fine, only then Ovie says something in Russian, shaking Sid back and forth by the shoulders a little, and Geno laughs, loud and in a way that Sid's never heard before; he shoots back something in rapid-fire Russian, his words coming easy to him in a way that they never seem to in English. 

"Right, so, I'm going to go lace up," Sid says, because he feels like they’re talking about him, and while Geno at least replies, _Okay,_ Ovie just bats his comment away without even bothering to look Sidney's way. 

Walking back towards his gear, Sidney thinks it fucking figures that Geno and Ovie would hit it off. That's almost worst-case scenario, because at least it's not fucking _Claude,_ but on the other hand, Giroux can't speak Russian, so maybe that would have actually been better. 

It's stupid, anyways; it's not like Sid won't get to share the ice with Geno tonight just because he's suddenly friends with Ovie. There's no reason for him to be getting weird over nothing. 

 

Flower ends up having to ref, and he complains about it the whole time. 

“You douchebags knew that was my stick!” he says, skating lazily out towards center ice for the face-off. “It’s not exactly a blind draw.”

“What’s it matter?” Brodeur asks. He’s the other linesman, which actually makes a lot of sense. “We’re not even playing this game."

“It’s the principle of the matter,” Flower says, in the tone of voice that implies he's just complaining for the sake of it. And then, when everyone sets up slower than he does, he moans, "Hurry up, assholes."

He drops the puck eventually, Sid winning the faceoff, and it's not that Sid's surprised—because he's not—but Geno is really good on his skates. _Really_ good. Sid doesn't watch too closely, because he's playing too, but he does watch at least a little, and Geno plays hockey like that's all he ever does, like he's not a barista but a _hockey player,_ the only title he has and the only one that matters. Geno checks people hard and handles the stick just as well as Sid does, and if that's not enough, Geno's always exactly where Sid wants him, when Sid wants him. Sid realizes absently that this must be what it's like for Kaner and Tazer when they play together: so comfortable and familiar that the other becomes just an extra limb, something that doesn’t require thought, that's just follow-through and result.

There's a moment, though—on a turnover by the other team—where Geno gets the puck at the half and takes it back towards the goal, and he weaves it right through Brewer and Carle, right in front of the crease. Anders is in goal, but he doesn't stand a chance; Geno charges the net and then moves laterally across the cage face, scoring while Anders is still setting up for a different shot that'll never come. It's such beautiful hockey—such fucking _beautiful_ hockey—that for a second, Sid can't even breathe.

That's what Sid wants for himself, hockey like that, and he's not jealous of Geno, but he feels a fire light in his bones, something that says, _Be better, play harder, make your hockey look like that._ They're different players with different styles, and Sid doesn't want to _play_ like Geno, but he wants his hockey _look_ like Geno's: effortless; dangerous.

Sid's good, he knows he is, but watching Geno, Sid just wants to be _better._

Geno looks over to him, and his smile is so wide; Sid smiles back, just as wide, because if there's anything he understands, it's that, what Geno's feeling right in that moment.

" _Chuvaaaak!_ " Ovie yells out, snapping Sid out of the moment, and when Sid looks over, the entire bench is on their feet, half of them with hands on their helmets in disbelief as they watch Anders dig the puck out of the back of the net and then bat it away angrily, back towards the center circle. Ovie's laughing, still looking out on the ice as he says something to Bryz, who's sitting next to him, and Sid has to remind himself that it doesn't matter that he doesn't understand what Ovie shouted; the Sedin brothers rarely say anything Sid understands, even when they are speaking English, and Sid's never felt at a loss because of that.

Geno skates up to him, then, skates _into_ him, and when Sid's regaining his balance, he says, "That goal? Me showing off just little bit. Now is your turn." He's smiling, his tongue poking out between his teeth, and Sid wants to joke back, but he can't think of anything to say, his brain too busy reliving that goal on repeat.

"You should show off all the time, then," Sid says, and he's not joking, but Geno laughs like he is.

"They say Sidney Crosby best player in league," Geno says, still joking around, "but I don't know. Maybe not, now that Evgeni Malkin in town."

"No one even says that," Sid says, and he shoves Geno a little with one closed fist, because they're on the ice and he can.

" _Everyone_ say that," Geno replies, and Sid's not really sure if they're still joking or not, and so he's kind of glad when Hallsy interrupts.

"Line change, you nons!" he yells out, and then Sid and Geno skate towards the benches, losing the thread of their conversation.

Later, though, when Sid gets back on the ice, he thinks about what Geno said. And it's ridiculous, because he can't suddenly _show off_ when he's been consistently giving it one hundred percent every time he's been out on the ice, but the thought's there.

Sid gets the puck; there are four defenders and a goalie between him and the cage, but he still somehow manages to weave, just barely, through a gap in the line, shooting the puck as he loses his footing and falls.

As soon as Sid hits the ice, he's popping back up onto his knees, looking for the puck, and when he finds it in the back of the net, he tosses both arms into the air.

"How many was that on defense?" he shouts to Geno, and Geno just rolls his eyes, lets his head drop back for just a second.

"No one likes showoff!" Geno yells back, but he's laughing, too.

Sid feels like he's staring, and so he looks away, picks himself up off the ice and grabs his stick before skating back to center to do it all again.

 

Afterwards, Sid heads off to the side to unlace his skates, and if Geno heads off in the opposite direction, chatting with Bryz and Ovie, well, that’s none of Sid’s business. EZDZ’s near him, though, talking to Kreider about what he’s doing for the rest of the day, and while Sid normally wouldn’t pay them any mind, he thinks maybe he should try more to talk to more people, to be more outgoing. 

“Nah, I got a photo shoot later,” Del Zotto says, and then after a pause, he rushes out to correct, “Not your kind! I mean, for the calendar. We firemen are very charity-conscious, and the ladies have been wanting to see my ravioli abs.” 

“Yeah, shut the fuck up,” Kreider says, shaking his head. “Fucking Jurco.” 

And then, as if his ears were burning, Jurco yells out to them as he’s putting away one of the cages, “Before they delete, retweet!” 

Jurco laughs, and so does EZDZ, and since Sid’s heard all about #KreiderPics, he thinks maybe it’s best he doesn’t choose them to try to be outgoing with. Maybe next time. Instead, he slides his feet into a pair of Crocs that make his sister want to cry, shoulders his bag, and starts heading out, past everyone to the front of the house. 

As he walks by the Russians, they’re all laughing, and when the laughter dies down, Ovie says something. 

“No, is okay,” Geno replies in English. “I’m getting ride with Sid.” Then he turns to Sid, as if he thought Sid was coming to get him instead of kind of just bailing on him, and asks, “Is still okay, right?” 

“Yeah,” Sid says, a little surprised, and he ignores how Ovie dramatically rolls his eyes, and how Varly elbows him for it. “Of course, yeah.” 

"Okay," Geno says, nodding a little. "Ready now?" 

"Whenever you are," Sid tells him with a shrug, and then when Geno's ready, they head out to the front of the house in relative silence. 

"Tomorrow, Sid, don't you fucking forget!" Flower yells after him, and Sid guesses it's a good thing, because he already did forget that they had plans. He doesn't say anything back, but he waves a hand in acknowledgement, and that's enough. 

He and Geno toss their stuff in the trunk and grab Gatorades from the flat in the back seat, and then they climb into the car, pull out of Marc's driveway, both still quiet. For a minute longer, Sid doesn't say anything simply because he's not sure if he's supposed to, but as they're driving onto the highway, he steals a glance at Geno; Geno's sweaty, his hair matted to his forehead, and he's staring out the window with as big a smile as Sid's ever seen on his face. 

He can't help it; he says, "It was good today." 

"Really good," Geno agrees, and Sid's watching the road, but he can see Geno look at him out of the corner of his eye. "Is stupid, but—"

Sid waits, but Geno doesn't finish his train of thought. 

"But what?" Sid prompts, a little bit defensively, because maybe they're not like Geno's old league, but nothing about them is _stupid;_ their league isn't stupid, their players aren't stupid, their pond isn't stupid... Fucking none of it is stupid, even though Sid wishes it was more than it is, sometimes. 

"I not play hockey in three years," Geno admits, looking a little sheepish. "At first, I not think anything of it, but now, when I play again—I don't know how you call it in English, but is like I was missing half. Half of life, half of me, I don't know. Is stupid, maybe." 

"Oh," Sid says dumbly, because he read into that all wrong, but it doesn't matter, because Geno didn't mean it the way he had though. "That's not stupid." 

"Yeah?" Geno asks. Sid glances at him real quick, and he's smiling a little; Sid can even hear it in his voice. "Okay." 

"Yeah, okay," Sid repeats after him, and that right there is the perfect moment for them to lapse into silence; Sid knows that much from years of avoiding conversation at work functions. Still, he finds himself saying, "I always thought I'd have a pond like that in my backyard, when I bought a place of my own." 

Geno lets out a breath of laughter—not at what Sid's saying, just over whatever he's thinking—and he says, "In Russia, I come from Magnitogorsk, and is cold there, but gets hot, too, maybe twenty-five degrees in summer, so—how much is that in Fahrenheit?" 

"I dunno," Sid says. "I use Celsius." 

"Oh," Geno says. "Okay, so is like twenty-five in summer, but my cousin moved to Yakutsk—up north, very cold, like negative forty in winter. His whole yard? One big hockey pond. Front of house, back of house, everywhere ice." 

"I wouldn't mind that so much," Sid says, and Geno lets out a bark of laughter. 

"I see how you play. I know you wouldn't." 

And Sid doesn't really know what he means by that, so he just continues, "I always had a pond every winter, growing up." 

"Yeah, is nice," Geno says, "but a lot of work." 

"I liked it though," Sid admits. "Laying the tarp, the pipes... hosing down the ice. I don't know, I liked it." 

"You crazy. Maybe you _should_ play goalie," Geno jokes. 

"I wouldn't last a day," Sid says, like they didn't just talk about this on the drive over. "I'm no good at waiting for things to come to me instead of the other way around." 

"I know; I saw you on ice." 

"I saw _you_ on the ice," Sid shoots back, although he's not exactly sure what he means by it, and doubts Geno is, either. 

They don't really talk about much of anything for the rest of the ride, although they do talk, and so that's novel to Sid. He keeps waiting for things to get awkward, especially when he accidentally complains about Hagelin sometimes forgetting Sid only speaks English, or when Geno cracks a joke and reminds Sid that he can't score on every possession, but it never does, and Sid drives back to Samovar on autopilot. 

He only realizes where he is when he double-parks outside, and then, almost startled by the fact that they're already there, he asks, "Wait, did you want me to drop you somewhere else?" 

"No, this is good," Geno says, and then he unbuckles his seatbelt, gets out of the car. Sid watches him grab his bag from the trunk in the rearview mirror. 

Once Geno's got his bag shouldered, he walks around the car on the sidewalk and then raps on the passenger side window with one knuckle; Sid lowers the glass. 

"See you—when?" Geno asks, leaning over to duck his head down to window-level, his forearms resting halfway inside the car. "Monday morning? I make something special for you then." 

"No pies," Sid tells him, forgetting the Russian word that Geno always uses for them. "You can't play good hockey if that's all you eat." 

"Before, I not understand," Geno says in defense. "But now? Only boring food for hockey lawyers." 

Sid is one hundred percent positive that Geno's making fun of him, but there's no heat to it, and so Sid just says, "Okay. Monday." And then, remembering that he still has a ton of Gatorade in the back seat, he reaches over and grabs one. "Another one for the road," he says, handing it over. 

Geno takes the bottle, looks at it for a second before looking at Sid. 

"Thank you," he says after a pause. 

"You're welcome," Sid says, shrugging. "I've got even more at home." 

Geno looks at him for another second longer, and then smiles, shakes his head as he says, "I don't mean for Gatorade, but that, too. I mean for—"

He cuts himself off, waves his free hand vaguely as if to imply, _hockey,_ or maybe, _everything,_ or maybe there's no difference between the two. 

"Oh," Sid says. And then because he doesn't know how else to respond, he shrugs again, repeats, "You're welcome." 

Geno smiles at him, and pats the car door twice as he pulls away. 

"See you," he says, and then Sid sits there, double-parked, as Geno walks away into his coffee shop. 

 

Sid meets up with Flower for lunch the next day; he shows up to their usual restaurant ten minutes early, and Flower shows up five minutes late, wearing a backwards baseball cap over dirty hair, and a pretty unfortunate pair of knock-off Oakleys. 

Sid takes one look at him as he's getting out of his car and asks, "Have you even showered today?" 

"I showered last night, douche," Flower says, shooting him a look, and the two of them head inside. "Besides, I have to shower before Veronique's thing tonight, anyway." 

"Oh, right. That's tonight?" Sid says, and then to the hostess, "Just two, please." 

"Two? Right this way," the hostess responds, and then walks them to a table by the window. It's only once she's gone and they're sitting down that Flower actually answers him. 

"Yeah, it's tonight," he says. "You sure you don't want to come?" 

"Uh, I'll pass," Sid says, and he watches as Flower flips through the menu even though they both always order the same thing. 

"You are the worst," Flower tells him bluntly. "Although if I'm being honest, there's no way I'd be going to this thing, either, if it wasn't for Vero. I mean, she's the love of my life and the future mother of my children, but I'm an asshole, and I don't understand half of the things she calls art." 

Sid doesn't understand it, either, not that he needs to say it. He went with Flower to one of Vero's gallery shows back when Flower was still trying to convince her to date him, back when she'd say, _I don't want to date a hockey player,_ and he'd respond, _I'm not a hockey player, I'm a goalie,_ and Sid was just the incredibly unhelpful and borderline detrimental wingman. The whole show went right over Sid's head, although it must've been good, considering the amount of money people were willing to pay for a 50x50 centimeter painting. 

"So tell her you have a hockey thing," Sid suggests. He realizes it's bad advice the second the words are out of his mouth, but Flower doesn't rag on him for it. 

"Nah," he says seriously, finally closing his menu and tossing it onto the table. " _I have a hockey thing_ really only works for you. That new guy last night was good, though. Where'd you find him?" 

Sid shrugs and says, "You know that coffee place near where I work? Samovar? That's his place." 

"Oh, yeah, I pass that place all the time," Flower says. "What the fuck does _Samovar_ mean, anyway?" 

"I don't know," Sid says, because he doesn't; he's just not as bothered by that fact as Flower apparently is. 

"You don't know?" he asks. "This dude's your friend, and you don't know what the name of his coffee shop means?" 

"We're not friends," Sid tries to explain, waving his hand in a gesture that's somehow supposed to mean, _You know how I am._ "He's just my barista." 

" _Je ne le crois pas._ You're such a douche," Flower says, digging around in his pocket for his phone, probably to Google it. Only that's exactly when the waitress appears to take their order, and so Flower smiles up at her like there's no way she heard him say what she thought she did, because he's an angel. 

"You guys ready to order?" she asks diplomatically. 

"Yeah, I think," Flower says, and Sid nods in agreement. "Can I have the bacon cheddar burger, cooked medium, and a Coke?" And then he goes ahead and orders for Sid like it's perfectly normal, because they've known each other for ages and Sid always gets the same thing, and so maybe it is. "And my friend would like just plain, grilled chicken breast with a side of pasta and marinara, and some of whatever vegetables you can steam." 

He looks to Sid as if to confirm this, and Sid asks the waitress, "And some ketchup, please." 

"Oh, yeah," Flower says, making a _duh_ face, as if Sid were talking to him. "And some ketchup." 

The waitress nods and recites back their order, and when she heads off towards the kitchen, Flower returns to his phone. 

"A samovar," he reads, tripping over the word, "is a heated metal container traditionally used to heat and boil water in and around Russia. The heated water is traditionally used to make tea." He looks up at Sid and says, "Thank you, Wikipedia." 

_Go figure,_ Sid means to say, or maybe, _You learn something new every day,_ but what he actually says is, "I hope he comes back," a total non sequitur because he didn't even mean to say it. It's sort of embarrassing, actually, even though he doesn't know why; he hopes Jeff keeps coming back, too, although that seems different somehow. 

"No way he quits," Flower says. "He'll be a regular." 

"Yeah," Sid says, sort of just as filler. “It’s just—I’ve never seen anyone that good.” 

Flower scoffs and says, “Yeah, _okay._ "

“You don’t count,” Sid says, because he thinks maybe Flower’s implying that Sid said he wasn’t very good. Sid’s not really sure, so he says it just in case. “You’re a goalie; you don’t count.” 

“I’m not talking about me, you idiot,” Flower says. “You’re the best player we have. By like, a lot. Geno’s good, yeah, but he’s not you.” 

And that—it’s flattering, of course it is, and Flower would never say anything just for the sake of pumping Sid’s tires, but at the same time, Flower just doesn’t get it. Sid’s always wanted to be better at hockey because he knew he could be, but that’s always been an internal thing; he’s never looked at someone else and felt that, not until Geno. Just looking at Geno makes Sid want to be better, and that’s new. 

"Think maybe you should let Biz check you out for a concussion," Sid says, because he can't really say any of what he's thinking, and Flower just rolls his eyes, clicks around some more on his phone before trying to explain something about scorpions that doesn't really sound accurate, but that he swears he saw in a National Geographic documentary the other night. 

 

Sid wakes up on Monday morning, and even though he's pretty well rested, he heads over to Samovar anyway, because he told Geno he would, and because he wants to. Ashley's there when he walks in, sleepily shuffling around behind the counter as she ties her apron, and he gives her an awkward wave when she notices him. 

"Just a sec," she says, not bothering to ask for his order this time. She pushes open the back door wide enough to stick her head through, and Sidney can hear her says, "Hey, Zhenya? He's here." 

Sidney drums his fingers on the countertop as he waits, and then because that's a habit he finds annoying in other people, he stops, shoves his hands in his trouser pockets, rocks forward onto the balls of his feet. It turns out that it doesn't really matter what he does with his hands in the end, though, because Geno comes out a second later, already smiling, a bit of flour on his jaw. 

"Morning, Sid," he says, but it comes out slow, like he's still trying to get used to English again at the start of a new day. 

"Hey, Geno," Sid says. And then, because he knows that at least he definitely is, Sid asks, "You sore after all that?" 

"Yes," Geno says, laughing under his breath like Sid should know better. "Everywhere sore. Is good feeling." 

"So you're sticking around for a while longer?" Sid asks. It's stupid; he should have just taken Flower's word for it, because Flower's good at that sort of thing, at reading people. 

"More than a while," Geno says, and he plucks a paper cup off the stack, says, "Usual, right?" 

"Yeah," Sid says, although Geno's already busy starting up the espresso maker, so maybe he wasn't really expecting an answer. 

"Can't have another player thinking they are best," Geno says. "I have to show them. Especially—not Senya, but how is called loud one?" 

It takes Sid a second to realize that Senya is Varlamov, but when he does, he guesses, "Ovie?" and strangely feels like he's just coming off a double shift, his chest tight and his heart light. 

"Ovie, yeah, yeah," Geno says distractedly. "So many names; I feel bad I forget." 

"I told you not to," Sid reminds him. "Besides, Ovie's the worst." 

"Your fight was with him?" 

"No," Sid says. "Just—" He waves his hand in some vague sort of gesture, but Geno doesn't even look up from where he is, steaming milk. 

"I get it," Geno says, and then he laughs. "Sheep happens." 

There's a pause after that where Geno keeps doing whatever it is that he does behind the counter, and Sid debates correcting him. Because it's not—it's _Shit happens,_ obviously, but he feels weird correcting Geno on cussing, feels weird correcting Geno at all, and so he just decides not to say anything. 

Of course, his brain forgets to send out that memo, because then he says, "Um." 

Geno turns around to look at him, and maybe what he's thinking and feeling is written all over his face, because Geno only laughs harder and says, "No. Sid, _no._ I know is _Shit happens."_

"Oh," Sid says, because he is completely lost. "Right." 

"Russians joke about it at hockey, so I think you know," he says, his smile stretched wide. He's looking at Sidney like _he's_ the ridiculous one. "His name Ovechkin, right? In Russian, _ovtsa_ is sheep, and _ovechka_ is like little sheep. Lamb. Is just jokes. Sheep happens." 

"Oh," Sidney says again, and then he laughs a little, half out of residual embarrassment, and half because Ovie is a fucking _little lamb._ "I don't think he would've wanted me to know that." 

"Good thing I tell you then," Geno says, and he looks at Sid like it's their secret, even though they both know Sid'll be calling Ovie that the first chance he gets. 

When the latte's done, Geno slaps a lid on the cup and sets it down on the countertop, already placed inside a cardboard sleeve. Sid reaches back into his pocket for his wallet, but Geno waves his hand. 

"No need," he says. "You are friend, and I owe for Gatorade, anyway." 

"Geno," Sid says like, _Come on,_ but Geno just ignores him, refuses to take Sid's money. 

"Wait here," he says instead. "I have something for you." 

Sid shrugs, says, "Sure," and Geno ducks into the back room. He's only gone for a second, but Sid uses the time to shove a ten into the tip jar, anyway. 

"Okay," Geno says when he resurfaces, a tinfoil package in hand. "This is breakfast sandwich, was keeping warm for you. Half Russian, half not, I don't know. You see. But try it; I think maybe we sell here, need guinea pig." 

"And what?" Sid asks. "I was your first choice? You know I'm picky." 

"Sid," Geno says in a way that makes Sid feel like he's actually saying something else, "you _only_ choice." 

And Sid doesn't know what to do with that, because he doesn't know if it's a joke or what, and so he just ignores it. He takes the sandwich and his coffee and sort of gestures awkwardly with them both before saying, "Thanks." 

"Is nothing," Geno responds, and Sid nods. 

"I'll swing by tonight, if you're still here," Sid offers, heading to the door, although he doesn't really know why he said that. It's not something he normally would want to do. "Let you know how it goes." 

"I already know you like it," Geno says, "but I'll be here." 

Sid shoulders open the door and thinks about not responding, but in the end he settles for calling out, "Quit pumping your own tires!" because it's something he'd say on the ice, and he's sort of out of his depth off it. 

If Geno notices, he doesn't say anything, just laughs. 

 

Sid gets to work and is immediately swamped. He takes a second to eat Geno’s sandwich, though, right before he dives in, and it’s actually really good. Sid was worried that it would be something he wouldn’t want to eat, but it was just eggs and some kind of sausage, a bit of cheese, all on this dark brown bread that he’s never had before. The bread’s denser than he’s used to, definitely not his usual whole wheat, but it’s the best part of the whole sandwich, and Sid wonders where he can buy some. It’s nice; a change of pace. Of course, the five or so minutes it takes him to eat is the quietest part of his day; the Stastny-Sakic merger is, for the most part, done save for signatures, but the second he’s done eating, his secretary tells him that his client, Jagr Inc., is interested in instigating a hostile takeover of Yzerman Industries, and so Sid's stuck in meetings all mornings, and then has to go over pages and pages worth of bank statements, property values, and stock distributions. Lunch comes and goes, and Sid doesn't even notice, because he's looking at the possibility of placing a tender offer, and that's actually really interesting to him. 

Gonch comes in sometime around four-thirty, perches himself on the armrest of one of the extra chairs in Sid's office, and that's actually a good sign because it means he's not really planning on staying long. He folds his hands on his lap and just looks at Sid, and usually Sid just stares right back, but today he's _busy._

"What do you want?" he asks. He doesn't know why his secretary keeps letting Gonch into his office; he'll have to talk with her about that. "I'm sort of having a busy day." 

"Same," Gonch says, but his voice is like, joking. "I had to come in early today... The office is _quiet_ at nine-thirty." 

"Funny; I've been here since six," Sid says, tucking a pen behind his ear and looking up from his paperwork. 

Gonch shrugs and says offhandedly, "You also make almost twice as much as I do," and Sid flushes. He hates talking about money because money isn't the point of anything he does. 

He doesn't bother responding to Gonch, just digs through his desk drawer and takes out a new pack of highlighters. They're not yellow—they're _orange,_ which is a color that Sid doesn't really like—but he opens them anyways, because if he doesn't use them, he'll have to run down to supply for other ones, and that's a waste of his time, especially as it's not even guaranteed that the supply room will _have_ yellow highlighters. 

He looks up once he's wrestled a new highlighter out of the pack, and Gonch is still just watching him. 

"What?" he says. 

Gonch makes a face like, _Nothing,_ but keeps staring at Sid afterwards as if he was trying to figure something out, his face impassive, his fingers laced. 

Two can play that game, and so Sid says, "Okay," and takes the cap off his highlighter using his teeth, flips the cover page over on his first set of papers and gets to work. 

Truth be told, he sort of forgets Gonch is there really quickly—five, maybe ten minutes—because he's absorbed in what he's doing, focusing everything he has on what's in front of him; there’s no point in doing it if he's just going to half-ass it, and people don’t go out of their way to hire him, expecting less than his best. Sid only really snaps out of it when he does because he hears Gonch says, "—ing hockey." 

Sid looks up. "What?" 

"I said, Geno's a lot better than I thought he would be at playing hockey." 

"Oh," Sid says, and he thinks back on it, on Geno on the ice, threading the puck between defenders or slapping a ridiculous shot from almost half-pond. Geno really was good out there—amazing, even, in a way that Sid had never seen before—but the crazy part about it wasn't just how good he was; the crazy part was how good he was _with Sid,_ and that made all the difference. Sid can't believe Geno ever stopped playing, even just for a few years, because he moves and thinks and breathes like hockey is the biggest part of him that matters, same as Sid, and Sid can't stay away from hockey at all. "Yeah, he was really good." 

"A compliment from Sidney Crosby? He should be honored." 

"No, he shouldn't," Sid says, because what's a compliment to a guy who plays like that? Unless— "Why? Did he say something to you?" 

"No," Gonch says, and he laughs a little, like Sid's being funny. 

Sid doesn't know what to say to that, and so he just nods his head like, _That's that._

"I talked to him a bit on the bench," Gonch continues, like Sid wasn't right there for it. "He's a good guy." And then, after a beat, he says, "You're a good guy, too, Sid. For a corporate lawyer, anyway." 

And Sid thinks, of course he's good; he trains his ass off without any payoff for half the year, only gets to see results on the ice for the short while that it's cold enough for there to actually _be_ ice. But he works on his stick-handling every day, plays some road hockey in the summer, tore out the carpet and shoots pucks into an old clothes dryer in his spare bedroom; Sid does all of that just so he _will_ be good. Sid likes a lot of things, is good at a lot of things, but hockey is the only thing that he loves, and the one thing he really refuses to not be great at. 

"Thanks," Sid says, because Gonch isn't Flower, and Sid can't exactly just tell him to fuck off. "Although you're not too bad, yourself. Just gotta clean up your corner work." 

And that—Sid doesn't really know what's wrong with saying that, but it makes him uncomfortable, the way Gonch looks at him when he says it; he looks at Sid the same way Sid's own mom sometimes looks at him: a little confused, a little fond, and a little something else that Sid can't name and doesn't understand. 

That's all only on Gonch's face for a second, though, and then he's rolling his eyes, dryly saying, "Thanks for that." 

"No problem," Sid responds seriously, even though he knows Gonch was being sarcastic; he's less likely to keep the conversation going if Sid's not playing along. 

"Anyways," Gonch says, standing up. "I'll leave you to it, I guess. You here much longer?" 

"Much longer?" Sid asks, stealing a glance at the clock. "It's only a quarter to five, and there's no hockey tonight." 

"Do you do anything else besides work and play hockey?" Gonch asks, but it's not meant as an insult, and Sid doubts he's expecting much of an answer. 

Still, Sid replies, "Sometimes I watch the History Channel." 

It has the desired effect, at any rate; Gonch shakes his head like Sidney isn't human, and says, "See you tomorrow, Sid. Don't work too hard." 

"No promises," Sid says, and he's back engrossed in paperwork before Gonch is even out the door. 

 

Sid doesn’t move much the rest of the day, he’s so lost in what he’s doing; he gets up exactly twice: once to grab some terrible coffee in the break room, and once to use the restroom. That’s it. He doesn’t even notice everyone’s mostly gone until there’s a knock at the class door of his office and he looks up to find all the lights are out. 

It’s ten-thirty, and Geno’s visiting him at work. 

“Hey, Sid,” he says, smiling easily, like this isn’t his first time dropping in. “Hope is okay I come… Gonch let me in.” 

“Oh,” Sid says, and then he blinks, says, “Oh, hey, uh. You can come and sit down.” He gestures to the armchairs in his office, and it’s only then that he realizes what Geno’s wearing; he’s wearing sneakers, like he came from the gym, a long-sleeve shirt and basketball shorts. His legs are longer and leaner than Sid had expected—not that Sid expected anything—and he doesn’t really know where to look, and he doesn’t really know why. It’s just that Geno’s so sturdy on the ice, real big, but under all that gear, it turns out that he’s got delicate ankles and knobby knees. There’s a nasty scar on one of his knees, too, and Sid wants to know what it’s from, the story and how bad it hurt, what his recovery was like. 

“I bring more food,” Geno says. “You never come to Samovar, and I know: no way you remember dinner.” 

“You didn’t have to—” Sid starts, because he kind of feels like shit for forgetting, but Geno ignores him and just sets a coffee cup and another sandwich down on his desk. 

“Decaf,” he says. “And _budterbrod._ Like, uh—Russian sandwich, almost. Same black bread, but meat and cheese inside.” 

“Black bread?” Sid asks, skeptical, but when he peels back the tin foil, all he sees is the same dark brown bread from before. “Oh, this bread was really good.” 

Geno laughs and tosses himself down into an armchair, and then he says, “Good. Seventeen ingredients, better be good!” 

“ _Seventeen_ —wait, you made the bread yourself?” 

“Sid,” Geno says like he’s an idiot. “You _know_ I bake.” 

“Yeah, _pies_ or whatever,” Sid says, picking up his coffee to take a sip. Geno crosses his legs, one ankle on his scarred knee, and Sid almost chokes on his coffee. 

“You okay?” Geno asks, but before he can get up, Sid makes a gesture like, _Stay there, stay there._

“Fine,” Sid says, and then he clears his throat, tries it again. “Sorry, I’m fine.” 

Geno shakes his head, smiling like he’s trying not to. 

“Need take better care of yourself,” he says. “You don’t eat for long time, you forget how.” 

The joke surprises a laugh out of Sid, but once he’s calmed down, he just says sarcastically, “Funny.” 

“I think so,” Geno says, and it’s true, if his smile is anything to go by. 

Sid sets aside some of his papers and then reaches for the sandwich. The bread really is good, and he’s hungrier than he realized, now that he’s presented with the opportunity to actually eat. This sandwich has no eggs; instead it’s just meat and cheese—simple, streamlined. 

“Kielbasa,” Geno says when he sees Sid looking. “And I don’t know name of cheese. _Rossiysky_ ; Russian cheese.” 

“Alright,” Sid says, and he takes a bit. Geno’s looking at him expectantly, so before he even swallows, he shoots Geno a thumbs up. 

“Good, I’m glad,” Geno says. “This—nothing special, but still Russian food. One day you come over, I make you _pelmeni,_ salad Olivier, and even make you eat cherry _vareniki_ for dessert.” 

“Yeah, right,” Sid says, steadfastly ignoring how Geno essentially just invited him over for dinner, because Sid doesn’t really do that, doesn’t know the etiquette for eating out at someone else’s place except for Flower’s, and there, there is no etiquette. “Is any of that actually healthy?” 

Geno shrugs, says, “ _Pelmeni_ is okay.” 

“Well,” Sid says, stalling because suddenly he doesn’t know what’s expected of him. “The sandwiches are really good. You should sell them.” 

Geno smiles at him—just smiles—and Sid wishes he knew what it meant. 

“Okay,” Geno says after a beat. “I will name most healthy one _The Sidney._ ”

And Sidney feels good about that, for some reason, and he’s so he’s not really thinking when he just—“What happened to your knee?” It just slips out. 

Geno loses his smile—not completely, not like it’s an off-limits topic or anything, but it dims a little. He rubs a thumb over his scar and says, “Not everyone who play hockey very good on skates. Big accident, had surgery, missed next winter. Then other accident happen, and league stopped, and I moved. Why stay if no hockey?” 

“Oh,” Sid says. Only then it really occurs to him what Geno’s saying, because his stomach feels cold as he asks, “Would you have left here, too, if I didn’t meet you and tell you about hockey?” 

“Yes, I think. Maybe I leave after a few years, if I didn’t meet you.” 

Neither of them says anything for a minute, Sid eating his sandwich and Geno just looking around Sid’s office, at his degrees and the framed photographs on the walls. At one point, Geno runs one hand up and down along the front of his skin, and Sid looks around at his degrees, too. 

“You know,” Geno finally says, clearly starting a new topic of conversation, “I watch Winne Pooh for first time other day.” He pulls a face once the words are out and corrects, “English Winnie Pooh.” 

“Are they any different?” Sid asks, reaching for the coffee. Decaf isn’t the best, but it tastes just as good and is probably what he _should_ be drinking this late at night. “I mean, it’s just a voice over in a different language, right?” 

“No,” Geno laughs. “Big difference. Our Winnie Pooh? Soviet Winnie Pooh. No shirt; bear look very different, dark brown. Still cartoon but more real. I don’t know; is just funny, how different.” 

“Yeah,” Sid says, thinking. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Russian movie. I was never really into movies, though, even English ones.” 

Geno smiles, says, “Can’t win at movies, but sometimes is nice,” and Sid wonders if that means he understands or not. “You leave soon?” 

Sid looks at the clock, and it’s almost eleven. He probably should stay for another half hour or so, but he doesn’t really _need_ to, especially not if he works hard later in the week, and so he just shrugs. 

“I could head out now,” he says, and he balls up the tinfoil, tosses it in the trash. “Thanks for, uh. The sandwich and the coffee, and not getting mad that I forgot. I don’t know if I said that.” 

“Is nothing,” Geno says, and he stands up when Sid does, even though Sid still needs to neaten up his desk and do up his collar, tighten his tie and put on his jacket. In the end, though, Sid just uncharacteristically takes off his tie, shoves it in his briefcase, and leaves his shirt unbuttoned at the neck. 

“Ready to go?” Sid asks, running a hand through his hair, and when he looks over, Geno’s already looking right back at him. It throws Sid off, a little. 

“Ready,” Geno says, and the two of them head out together, Sid shutting the lights off behind them. 

It’s a short elevator ride back to the ground floor, and an even shorter walk across the lobby, and then they’re standing outside in the cold. Sid’s two seconds away from feeling a shiver up his spine, and he remembers that Geno’s just in shorts. 

“You need a ride?” he asks, and wonders where Geno lives. “It’s cold out.” 

“I’m _Russian,_ ” Geno points out, half a joke. “And I live close.” 

“Alright,” Sid says. He waits for a second, but Geno doesn’t say anything else, and so he continues, “See you later.” 

He turns around to walk to his car, and doesn’t stop to check that Geno’s walking away, too. 

 

The next day, Sid doesn't go into the office; instead, he has outside meetings with the head of Jagr Inc., and a few other—albeit less intense—clients. It's a welcome change to the routine, except that means Sid's stuck with Starbucks, which besides being overpriced, isn't even good. 

The Jagr Inc. offices are nice, and almost aesthetically identical to Sid's law firm: everything's modern, glass, open. There's no privacy in Jagr's conference room, although Sid supposes there's no need for it, and he spends a good forty minutes outlining what a tender offer would entail; Jagr is cutthroat, a businessman through and through, but sometimes even the smartest of businessmen are baffled by the law, and Sid doesn't want to take any unnecessary chances. 

"So, basically," Sid says, motioning towards the packets on the table in front of them, "this is your best bet. Yzerman Industries rejected your offer, but we're going to push it; you offer them a fixed price for their company—a price above current market price—and then we wait for a response." 

Jagr lets out a frustrated breath and says, "We had this same problem with Schenn and Schenn, and I don't really care how we done it; we done it. It's the same here: I'm not twenty-one and trying to prove something with my words, Sid." 

Sid takes a second to try to figure out exactly what Jagr means by that, and when he thinks maybe he has a handle on it, he responds, "'I know; but your only other viable option is a proxy fight, and that's more words: you'll have to convince enough shareholders to replace the current Yzerman management with a new management that _will_ approve the takeover. It's not impossible, but it'll take a lot more time than it seems you want to spend on this." 

"Yes, this is true," Jagr says, bracing his elbows on the glass table and steepling his fingers. "The first option, then." 

Sid's phone buzzes in his pocket for the third time that meeting, and he ignores it as he says, "Let me look over some numbers, and I'll let you know how little over market I think you can go and still get the outcome you want." 

"Excellent," Jagr says, and he stands up, signaling the end of the meeting; Sid stands, too. 

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Jagr," Sid says, holding out his hand, and Jagr takes it, shakes it with a grip tighter than necessary and probably meant to intimidate and assert authority. 

"I like you, Sidney," Jagr says, and Sid's phone buzzes silently again. "You are young, receptive, and can move mountains. We will get that company." 

"Yes, sir," Sid says, and then they part ways. 

In the elevator, Sid takes his phone out of his pocket and checks his messages; he's got four texts, and he opens them all sequentially. The first is from Varly, strangely enough, as Varly's never texted him before, and they don't socialize outside of hockey. Considering that there was a period of about two years where Sid hadn't heard a word from him, the fact that he's now _texting_ Sid is a bit bizarre. 

_Hello, it's Varly,_ the text starts, almost formal like an email or something. _Is it okay to use the mailing list to invite everyone to my piano concert or is it just for hockey?_

Sid wants to ask him how he hasn't seen the email thread going around that's mostly just videos of Hallsy trying to play the recorder, but in the end he just settles for texting back, _Of course it's okay,_ as he's crossing the Jagr Inc. lobby. He doesn't know why on Earth Varly would _want_ to invite them, especially considering that they're mostly loud and uncivilized, and Varly's played for the Queen of England before, but that's his prerogative. 

The next text is from Flower, its tone deliberately light: _What do you charge hourly for engagement ring shopping?_

Sid texts back, just as light, _Congratulations, but you can't afford me._ It's not like Flower actually has to ask if Sid will go with, and so it's not like Sid actually has to answer. It just is. Sid's happy for them, knows without a shadow of a doubt that Vero will say yes, and that's nice for them; Sid's known Flower for so long that it's almost like they're family, and Flower deserves good things. This has been a long time coming, and so Sid's not exactly surprised. 

He wonders if this means he'll have to work on a best man's speech; he loves Flower, but hopes not. 

Sid opens the last two texts as he's waiting for the parking garage employees to pull his car up. They're both from Geno, and Sid doesn't really know what to think about that, even though it's fine. 

_Didn't see you today (((((,_ the first text says, and Sid doesn't know what the deal with the parentheses is. _If you not sick, drive together to hockey tomorrow?_

The second text has a picture attached, one of the inside of Samovar. It's almost empty—maybe two of three people sitting down, but Luongo's there again, standing up with his Moleskine out. _How to tell poet that Samovar doesn't have open mic poetry? I don't think he cares._

Sid doesn't laugh at that, but it feels like a near thing, like the laughter is trapped in his chest. His car pulls around, then, and Sid slides his phone back into his pocket, doesn't respond to Geno for the longest time. 

Later, though, when he's at home and about to hop on his treadmill, he texts back, _Not sick; meetings. Meet you tomorrow, Samovar, 5pm._

Sid almost puts a question mark at the end of that, but then doesn't, because it's not a question. He ignores the second text for as long as it takes for him to feel guilty about it, because he doesn't know what to say, and then eventually sends, _I know that poet, too. He's goalie crazy. Best to leave him be._

Geno texts back, _))))),_ and Sid has to Google it. 

 

The next day, they leave early enough from Samovar that the only other car at the farm when they arrive is Flower's, and Flower's only just grabbing his stuff from the trunk. 

"Hey," Flower says to them both once they're parked, and then, more to Sid, he adds, "No Ference tonight; he's got some International Librarians' Conference, I think? I don't know; books, tattoos—I think that guy’s still trying to find himself." 

"S'okay," Sid says, shrugging, and once he's got his gear, he grabs himself an unopened Gatorade from the middle, and tosses one to Geno, too. While he knows that everyone's got other things going on in their lives—things that'll make them miss hockey—he still doesn't really understand it. 

The three of them walk around to the pond together in relative silence; all of the Staals are out there, and Jeff, and they're just joking around, setting everything up. Jordan's still in his mailman uniform, still wearing shorts in the dead of winter, and although Sid absently notes that Jordy's got skinny legs, too, just like Geno, he doesn't really dwell on them. So—just a one-off, then. 

Sid tosses his gear down near one of the benches, and so does Geno. Flower goes off to loosen up and do some goalie stretches, but Geno sits right next to Sid, and the two of them tape their sticks, side by side. 

"What you do to your knob?" Geno asks quietly, leaning over, and out on the ice, Marc laughs as Jared falls over in his sneakers, dropping his side of the goal. 

"What?" Sid asks, and then he looks down at his stick. "Oh. It's just—there's twine in it, for the grip. I dunno." 

"Can I hold, or—superstition?" Geno asks, and although Sid doesn't _like_ when other people touch his stick, it's not a superstition, and so he hands it over. It's just Geno; it's not like he's going to mess with it. 

Geno takes the stick and walks a few paces away, takes a few shots with an imaginary puck before passing the stick back to Sid. 

"What do you think?" Sid asks. 

"Is okay," Geno says. "Too much for me." He shows Sid the end of his own stick, and it's taped pretty much as basically as it can be. 

"We can't all be perfect," Sid jokes, only once the words are out of his mouth, he wonders which way he meant them. 

Geno laughs, though, and so Sid doesn't worry about it. The two of them lapse into silence again, shoving their feet into skates and lacing up. 

"Now that we've all met up a few times, a lot more people should be getting with the program and showing up," Sid tells Geno, idly making conversation. 

"Yeah," Flower yells over, although Sid has no clue how he heard that; maybe sound travels differently on sod farms. "Like those assholes who never know what's going on because they won't give me their email addresses." 

And then, almost as if by fate, they hear someone just out of sight saying, "C'mon, Marshall. Time to meet Daddy's friends." 

It sounds just like Tyler Seguin, and if he brought a _baby_ to Sid's hockey game—

Segs rounds the corner with a Labrador puppy, and Flower shouts at him, "Speak of the devil!" 

"And he shall appear!" Segs shouts back, his arms spread wide as he smiles at Flower. He's got his gear over one shoulder, one end of the dog leash dangling from the fingertips of one hand. He walks over to Sid and Geno, drops his gear on Sid's empty side, and jerks his chin in hello. 

Geno nudges Sid, and Sid says, "Segs, Geno; Geno, Segs." And then the dog walks closer, weaves his way in between Sid's legs to get to Geno, and Sid has to detangle the leash from around his calves. "You finally decide on vet school?" he asks, because he vaguely remembers someone saying something about animals, and Segs has a dog, so. 

"Nah, I've still got my tattoo shop; just needed a shop dog," Segs says with a smile. "I'm way too dumb to be a vet, dude, who are you kidding?" 

And Sid—what is he supposed to say to that? That he's sure Segs is plenty smart? Sid has no clue how smart Segs is, doesn't really know anything about him, and so it's pretty lucky that Geno unknowingly saves him. 

"How's called this guy?" Geno asks, hunched over in his seat so that he and the dog are almost at eye level. He looks pretty happy, just scratching the dog's chest, tugging jokingly on its ears. 

"Marshall," Segs says. 

"Marshall?" Geno repeats, and then turns back to the dog, says, "Hi, Marshall, I'm Geno." 

"Yeah," Segs says. "I wanted a masculine name, you know? Marshall, like a Martian, you know?" 

Sid doesn't, and so he just doesn't respond. 

"I love dogs," Geno says. "Big dogs best." 

"Really?" Segs asks, and he perks up at that. Sid feels weird, sitting in between them while they're talking. "You should swing by the local shelter, then; that's where I got Marshall. They've got this dog, Jeffrey, and he's only two, but he's already the size of a small sofa." 

"Okay," Geno says, like he's actually considering it. "Sid probably know where; I get address from him." 

And Sid's about to say that he's _right there_ if they wanted to talk to him, but then people are starting to trickle in, and one of them calls out, "Seguin?" 

Segs turns around, and so do Sid and Geno, and it turns out there's actually already about a dozen or so guys behind them, although Kaner's the one who called out, having just rounded the corner of the house with Toews.

"No shit—Patty Kane?" Segs says, and he passes his dog's leash off to Sid, gets up to hug Kaner. Sid just sits there with the leash held loosely in his hand like he has no clue what to do with it, and so Geno takes it from him, keeps petting Marshall with his free hand. 

Over Sid's shoulder, Segs and Kaner are doing something that's half hugging, half wrestling, and Sid doesn't pretend to understand. Eventually, though, they stop, just stand there with their arms around each other's shoulders, and Kaner says, "Jonny, you didn't tell me you knew Tyler!" 

"How do _you_ know Tyler?" Tazer asks, and just by the tone in his voice, Sid can tell he's in a bad mood, and that he'll probably argue a lot with Kaner on the ice. Sid doesn't know much, but if he knows anything, he knows what happens on the ice. 

"I met him out drinking in Switzerland when I was studying abroad," Kaner says, and then he laughs. "He was half-naked and dancing on the bar like an idiot." 

"When were you in Switzerland?" Marchand asks, directing the question at Segs, and it's more idle curiosity than anything else. 

"I told you there was a period in my life where I thought I wanted to be a European house DJ," Segs says, looking like he can't believe Marchy didn't know. 

"No, you didn't!" 

"Keeping secrets from the wife?" Lucic jokes, and Segs laughs at that. 

"Nah, Brownie's my wifey; Marchy's just my mistress," he says, and once the laughter and chirping die down, he adds, "I was so sub-par at it, though, that I quit halfway through and took up tattooing in Biel instead." 

"Yeah, you were pretty bad at both, for a while there," Kaner says, and then to Tazer, "Don't worry; I didn't let him or his needle near me." 

Sid didn't realize that Toews was tense to begin with, but he visibly relaxes at that, and so Sid supposes that maybe he was. 

"Oh, wait," Segs says. "Do any of you guys have twitter? You should totally follow Marshall! C'mere, Marshall!" 

Marshall clearly knows his name at this point, because his entire body stills for a second as his head cocks to the sound, and then he's taking off, Geno letting the leash drop so he can go. 

"Hey, fuckface!" Flower yells. "No one cares about your dog's twitter; we're here to play hockey!" 

And finally—someone's speaking in a language Sid can understand. 

 

Now that Sid knows what's coming with Geno, playing with him is just _fun._ They wind up on the same line, and they're playing against Kaner and Toews's team, too, which is really nice because things get really intense and really competitive, really fast. The guys make sure Sid's never on the ice at the same time as Giroux, too, so that keeps it civil, for the most part. Sid wonders what that says about him, the fact that his fighting with Giroux is a big enough thing that everyone notices it. 

The presence Geno is on the ice hasn't had the time to get old, yet, and so Sid doesn't pay Giroux any mind, just enjoys how Geno reads Sid's body language, how he just seems to know how Sid's going to do, and where Sid's going to want him. Sid's never had that before, someone that didn't need words on the ice. 

At one point, Sid easily strips Kaner of the puck because he trips on a chip in the pond, and then he and Geno take it all the way up ice before the rest of the guys even get back past half. Sid tries to slap it in, but Quick gets a pad on it and it bounces right back to him, conveniently on his tape for him to pass to Geno, who has no trouble putting it away. 

Sid laughs, because there's no better feeling in the world than changing the score, and he goes to bump gloves with Geno as they switch lines and head to the bench. On the other side of the ice, Tazer is yelling, "You've gotta fucking _pass that,_ Kaner!" and Kane yells back, "I fucking _would've,_ if I wasn't falling on my _fucking face_!" and everyone just ignores them, having quickly gotten used to it. 

And maybe that fires Kaner up more, who knows, but he ends up double-shifting and scoring a few seconds after the next face-off. 

Watching them on the ice, Sid turns to Geno, who's beside him on the bench. Geno's watching the play, too, his eyes moving rapidly as they follow the puck, and Sid bumps their knees together. 

"Hey," he says, getting Geno's attention. He puts his bare hand out flat, palm up, and says, "Next time—if this is the goal," he points to the heel of his palm, "slot the puck around back, and Nealer can pick it up here; I'll slow into the crease—tip in—done." He draws invisible lines on his hand, as if drawing out the play. 

"No, no," Geno says, and he grabs Sid's hand, draws a fingertip along Sid's palm as he marks out his own play. "I take puck here, cross over to side and then behind goal, and you pass to Neal for tip." Then, still holding Sid's fingers out flat, he raises his voice, says, "Other play won't work because Neal lazy." 

Nealer looks over from Sid's other side and says, "What? Fuck you, I am not." 

" _Lazy,_ " Geno repeats, and he shoots a smile at Sid like he's in on the joke. 

Sid doesn't say anything back, because then from a ways behind the bench, someone shouts out, "Look at all these white dudes, trying to play a real man's sport." 

Sid turns around without really having to; it's PK's voice, and with PK comes his friend Cabbie, a package deal. The two of them drive out only once a week to play, because they live so far away that the commute is tough. Cabbie doesn't even play, actually, and Sid leans over, explains that to Geno. 

"They're both zookeepers about two and a half hours away; PK and Cabbie," Sid says, pointing them out. "PK plays defense, but Cabbie doesn't play." 

"Then why he here?" Geno asks.

"I dunno," Sid says. And he really doesn't; the first time he met Cabbie, and Cabbie said he was just there to chill, Sid thought he was joking. He must like it, though, just watching and talking with the guys, because he keeps coming back. Sid's stopped trying to understand it, same as he's stopped trying to understand the Steve Irwin outfits they wear to work, even though they don't have to. 

"You gotta impress the ladies," Cabbie had tried to explain. "Show off your swagger a little," and Sid knows he doesn't really know people, but he can't imagine that those outfits do that. 

It's alright, though; Cabbie's a nice guy, and it's not like he's hurting anything by watching. On the ice, Jeff scores his first goal, and Jordan picks him up, swings him around as excitedly as if it was his own goal they were celebrating. Marc was one half of the D pair that got beat, but he just bangs his stick lightly against the ice before getting up and giving Jeff's helmet a gentle shove. He says something, but Sid can't hear it, just sees his slight smile, and Jeff's dimples. 

"Hey!" Cabbie yells out, just as PK's almost completely geared up. "Whose dog is this?" 

"Mine, and his name is Marshall!" Segs yells back, smiling widely. And then, after a beat, he adds, "Follow him on twitter! @MarshallSeguin!" 

"What? Your dog has a twitter?" Cabbie yells back. "Dude, that's awesome!" 

"Yeah, I know!" 

Segs is laughing on the ice, and Cabbie's laughing off it, and Sid just rolls his eyes, hops off the bench with his line mates for their shift. They run his play, and Nealer's late to the puck, prompting Geno to chirp him, " _Lazy._ " They run it again next possession, this time with Geno's changes, and when Sid gets Geno's pass, he holds it for a second, stalls long enough for everything to fall into place. He can see how it's going to go in his mind, and when he lets go of the puck, it does just that—sails perfectly past Scuderi to the middle of Nealer's stick, for the deflection right past Quick and into the net. 

It's not the most beautiful or seamless play Sid's ever seen, but it's _hockey,_ just different shades of the same thing, and he smiles at Geno smiling at him. 

 

Sidney’s hockey high lasts a long time that night. When he gets off the ice, some of the younger guys stay on to do trick shots on the empty net, yelling things at each other, taunting and chirping, and Sid remembers when he was really into trick shots, too, back before they came so easy to him it was like breathing. 

“Backhand, top of the cheese,” Hallsy yells out to Ebs, and when the Nuge yells out overtop, “Spin-o-rama, Ebs, or you can go home,” Hallsy just gives him a shove and repeats, “Backhand cheds, bro!” 

Sid doesn’t see which Ebs chooses, but he can hear his laughter as he takes off his skates. 

It’s just nice, that’s all, to play hockey with some good guys on a nice pond. Sid’s mood doesn’t even sour when Danny walks over, Giroux in tow, because he’s sitting next to Geno, and they were killer out there, moving like they’ve played together their whole lives. 

“Hey, Sid,” Danny says, and Sid smiles at him, wants to laugh at the way Giroux refuses to say hi, refuses to even look over at him. 

“Danny,” Sid says like _hello._ He leans over to take off his sock tape, neck craned up as he says, “That was a hell of a goal today.” 

“Thanks,” Danny says, and Sid doesn’t have a problem with him, but it’s just pleasantries, and so he’d rather not be talking. “Hey, listen—could I bring my boys to our next meet-up? Not to skate with us or anything, they’re still too young, but just to watch a bit?” 

And Sid—he doesn’t understand why Danny’s asking him this, or why everyone seems to think he’s something more than just the guy who handles legal and logistics, but he still answers anyway, says, “Sure. Of course.” 

“How gracious of you,” Giroux deadpans, and Danny looks shocked at that, just for a second, like he’s not used to seeing Giroux act like a little shit. 

“ _Claude,_ ” he says, heavily accented, and then he takes off in French. Giroux just stands there and pulls a face like, _No,_ and Sid wonders what the point is of Danny having a nanny that’s just as childish as his kids. 

When the two of them are walking away, Geno leans over towards him and bumps his shoulder, saying, “Now I know who you fight. You knock out his tooth, or no?” 

“No way,” Ovie says, sliding up along Sid’s other side. “Sidney Crosby tough, but not that tough.” 

“What do you know about it?” Sid asks him. “You spent all of tonight loafing out there.” 

Geno laughs loud at that, his head thrown back, and Sid feels oddly proud, even though he wasn’t joking. 

“We agree to disagree,” Ovie says like he’s taking the high road, and Sid just shrugs. 

“Sure, whatever.” And then he remembers, so he tacks on, “Little lamb.” 

Ovie looks confused for a second, but then apparently his brain catches up, because his eyes widen and his jaw drops, just a little. 

“ _No,_ ” he says, and he shoots a look of betrayal towards Geno. “You told him?” 

“I didn’t know is big secret,” Geno says defensively, but his voice is on the verge of laughter again. 

“ _Idi na khui,_ we have a _Russian bond,_ ” Ovie stresses, and Geno just shrugs, tosses an arm loosely around Sid’s shoulders. 

“We have coffee bond,” he says. “Cannot be broken.” 

“Mother Russia is crying,” Ovie says, and then after a pause, he reaches forward, pinches Sid’s cheek. “You be good.” 

Sid jerks his face away from Ovie’s hand, knocking Geno’s arm off from around his shoulders in the process. 

“Alright, I’m going home now,” Sid says, grabbing his gear. He starts the walk back to his car, waving at Marchy and Segs as he goes, and Geno jogs to catch up with him, shouting something in Russian back at Ovie as he does. 

Just as they’re rounding the house and the pond is fading from sight, Sid can hear Del Zotto say, “What do you mean, I left hair all over your bathroom last time?” and then that’s it, nothing else from anyone on the pond. It’s surprising how readily the house blocks the noise from one side to the other, and so it’s almost like no one’s back there at all. 

“Good night again,” Geno says. “We played long time, but never long enough.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Sid says. He unlocks his trunk and the two of them toss their gear inside, and then Sid habitually opens the door to the middle row, goes to grab them Gatorades. The cardboard flat is almost empty, needing to be replaced with a new one from Sid’s apartment, and Sid calls out, “Fruit Punch or Lemon Lime?” 

“Fruit Punch,” Geno answers, and so Sid grabs one of each, stands back up outside the car. 

He tosses the Fruit Punch over the hood of the car to Geno, and then twists the cap on his own Lemon Lime, downing about half of it in one go. He looks over, and Geno’s done the same, his lips a little red from the food coloring. 

It’s weird, how the worst part of Sid’s night—the part where he’s just finished playing and has the longest amount of time to wait before he laces up again—is also one of the calmest. It’s not calm around him, not by a long shot, but something inside Sid feels quiet, despite how many people are climbing into their cars and chirping at each other across the driveway. Sid looks at Geno. 

“Hey,” he says. “You have anywhere you need to be?” 

Geno shrugs, says, “No.” 

“Alright. I want to show you something,” Sid says, and he’s not even surprised to realize that he means it. 

 

Sid doesn’t take them very far, maybe ten or fifteen minutes out of their way once they’re off the sod farm, and the scenery is just more of the same: some trees every now and then, but mostly just flat, barren land with nothing else on it. If he thought it was quiet in the car, it’s even quieter when they’re parked along the side of a frozen dirt road, standing outside, all this open air around them to swallow up any sounds. 

Sid’s breath comes out in little grey clouds, and he shoves his hands deeper into his sweatshirt pockets. He only realizes how cold it is now that he doesn’t have his gear on, and isn’t skating as fast and as long as he can. 

“We’ll be quick,” he says. “It’s cold out.” 

“S’okay,” Geno says, and then he follows Sid as Sid jumps a wooden, waist-high road barrier. “Is this legal?” 

“Um. I dunno,” Sid says honestly, his boots crunching on frozen grass as he walks. It’s just wide-open nothingness, exactly like what surrounds them back at the pond, but from what Sid knows, no one ever uses this plot. “I’ve never had any problems.” 

“First time for everything,” Geno jokes. “What you want to show me? Nothing is here.” 

“You’ll see,” Sid says. “It’s not far, just at those trees over there.” He walks faster to keep warm now that his sweat has cooled on his skin, and his car gets smaller and smaller behind them when he looks back over his shoulder. “I know this looks sketchy, but it’s not like I’m going to—um.” 

He freezes up for a minute, trying to find something to say to salvage the rest of the sentence, but Geno just laughs under his breath in a way that seems to cut through the stillness more than anything else has been able to. 

“Not going to what, Sid?” he asks. “Steal lunch money? Ovie already say you no tough guy; I can take you.” 

Sid tries not to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, and just says, “Shut up.” 

They get to the copse of trees not a minute later, and it’s only once they’re up close that they can see it in the darkness: a statue of an old-time boxer wearing nothing but shorts and gloves, his knees bent and his arms held out in front of him. The statue itself is looking worse for wear, the bronze of its body turned green from deterioration, the stone of its base half sunk into the dirt. 

“You can’t really even see it from the road, so who knows why it’s here,” Sid says. “That’s a real guy; his name’s Sprague Cleghorn.” 

“Sprague Cleghorn,” Geno repeats, almost like he doesn’t know that he’s doing it, and he studies the statue up close, as if it were something important to him, or as if he knew that it’s important to Sid. “You big boxing fan?” 

“No,” Sid answers honestly. “When I was younger, though, I knew this guy named Mario; he was sort of like my mentor—he taught at my law school, and was the one who introduced me to this hockey league, when I moved out here—and he came out here all the time, I guess. He took me with him sometimes.” 

“He no play hockey anymore?” Geno asks, but he’s being very gentle about it, his face somber as he looks between Sid and Sprague Cleghorn. 

“No,” Sid says. “Oh! No, he’s not—I mean, he’s not dead or anything, I just haven’t seen him in a long time. He quit law and does a lot of philanthropy and stuff out in Africa, doesn’t have a phone or anything.” 

“Oh,” Geno says, and then he smiles like he’s embarrassed, bumps his shoulder into Sid’s. His breath comes out steady, slower than Sid’s, but just as visible in the nighttime air. “So why he like statue?” 

“I don’t really know,” Sid answers honestly, looking at it. “We don’t know who made it or why it’s out here, or anything. I looked him up once, though—Sprague Cleghorn? He was a world-class boxer in the 1910s, and fought in World War One, but the crazy part is that he was a hockey player, too.” 

“Ah,” Geno says. “One of us. Is why he so good at fighting.” 

“His brother played, too,” Sid says, and he feels like talking this much should feel awkward, but it’s just history, nothing personal, and so it doesn’t. “And the weird thing—there was an old newspaper article about it—Sprague died because he got hit by a car, and then his perfectly healthy brother died of a heart attack like two days later, right before Sprague’s funeral.” 

“Crazy,” Geno says, looking at Sprague, but then he turns to Sid, looks at Sid with the same sort of intensity, and Sid doesn’t know what to do. 

“So, that’s it, I guess,” he says, suddenly unsure. He takes his hands out of his sweatshirt pockets, rubs them together and blows hot air in between his palms. 

“Let’s go back to car before you freeze,” Geno says. “Need hat and gloves next time.” 

“I’m _fine,_ ” Sid says, but the two of them still start walking anyways. 

The way going is just as quiet as the way coming, which is good because Sid has run out of things to say, but not so good because it affords Sid the time to think, and he thinks maybe it was a mistake taking Geno out here. Not that Sid was expecting anything, or really even trying to convey anything by it, but now that it’s over and done with, he realizes that it’s just some shitty statue to Geno; Sprague Cleghorn doesn’t come with any of Sid’s memories of Mario, not for Geno, and so there’s no way it comes with any of the meaning. 

They hop the road barrier and climb back into the car, and when Sid starts the engine, he’s surprised to find it’s half past twelve; they still have a long drive home, and Sid wonders where the time went. 

“Hey, Sid?” Geno says, breaking the silence. 

“Yeah?” 

“Thank you. For showing me.” 

“Oh,” Sid says, and he smiles a little, relieved. “You’re welcome.” 

 

Sid gets a whopping two hours of sleep that night, and wakes up more tired than he probably would have been had he just stayed awake the entire time. He doesn't hit snooze on his alarm at all, but he does almost fall asleep in the shower, and so later he downs an entire mug of terrible instant coffee in the kitchen, just so he doesn't kill anyone on the road. 

It's not worth the effort to make eggs, and so Sid settles for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, eats it while checking his email on his phone. Varly's sent out his email to everyone, explaining how his charity concert was real last minute and saying that they all could use a little culture in their lives, and although Sid doesn't know anything about the piano, he'll go. It could be nice, seeing everyone in the real world; of course, it could also be a disaster—which, truth be told, it probably will be—but Sid's got hope. 

The drive to his office is uneventful, the roads almost completely empty considering how early it is. Sid drops his car off at the garage, and his game plan is to just head straight inside to get a start on the day's work, but habit has him going to Samovar, and he honestly could use the coffee. 

Opening the door, the first thing Sid sees is the new sign on the back wall, declaring that Samovar now sells sandwiches; there are three options—the _Rodina,_ the Samovar Classic, and the Sidney—and they're all written in neat, precise lettering. Sid had thought Geno was joking about naming a sandwich after him, but apparently not. 

The coffee shop is completely dead, no other customers except Sid, and it takes him a second to notice that Geno's even behind the counter, because he's not running about making drinks, or stuffing the pastry case. This time, he's sitting on the counter along the back wall, his feet dangling and a white mug resting in between his spread knees, and he's fast asleep; his head is tilted to the side and resting against the espresso maker. Sid takes all of it in instantaneously, almost, the way Geno looks younger with his eyes closed and how his lips look fuller slightly parted, and he wants to reach out, to touch the skin of Geno's neck and the front of his throat, wants to press the pad of his thumb against the center of Geno's bottom lip and then follow up the touch with his own mouth. 

It hits Sid just like that: simple, idle want, non-threatening only up until the moment that Sid realizes it's there, and then it turns terrifying, crashing into him like a wave and leaving him reeling. 

It's not—Sid doesn't do this sort of thing, doesn't usually want other people, and his heart is pounding harder in his chest at the realization than it has in a long time. He hates himself, a little, for what he knows is about to happen, because he's not good at being friends in the first place, and definitely won't be any better at being friends with someone he wants more from. 

Sid thinks about leaving, about just turning around and pretending none of this ever happened, only something in the air must shift, because Geno blinks awake and sees him standing there. 

Geno looks at Sid for a second, his lips curled up lazily unto something resembling the softest of smiles, and he says quietly, "Hey." 

It's one word—just _hey_ —but the way he says it hits Sid harder than anyone on the ice ever has. It sounds like everything Sid didn't even know he wanted from Geno, all packed into three little letters. 

"Hi," Sid says back, blunt and uncomfortable, and it makes Geno blink slowly a few times before shaking his head, sitting up straight as he realizes where he is. 

"Morning, Sid," he says, but whatever was in his voice before is gone, and Sid's torn between never wanting to hear it again, and wanting to hear it more than anything else. "You sleep at all?" 

"I'm fine," Sid rushes out, and then because that's not what Geno asked, Sid says, "Um. Yes. I did." He glances over his shoulder at the door, and then back at Geno. 

Geno laughs a little and shakes his head at Sid's antics, and he says, "One day, you fall over and sleep for a week." 

And Sid just really wants to get out of there, because all of a sudden, Geno's making him _nervous,_ and he hates being nervous, isn't used to it at all. He wants to know if Geno forgets English when he's in bed, and can't stand that he'll never find out. 

"Just, um. A large skim latte, please," Sid says, because it's better than saying, _Date me,_ and those were really his only two options. 

Geno looks at him for a second like he's trying to understand what Sid said, and then asks, "You okay?" 

"What? Yeah," Sid says, and Geno looks unsure, but he starts to make Sid's drink anyway. "Just, you know. Tired." 

And that—that's good. That's something Sid would've said before all of this, before he noticed the muscles in Geno's shoulders and forearms as he moved around behind the counter. 

"Is okay," Geno says. He's foaming the milk, and normally Sid would watch, but today he looks up at the chalkboard menu, like maybe he's thinking of ordering something else next time. "I'm tired, too. Almost call Ashley, get her to work." 

"Oh. So why didn't you?" Sid asks. If Jagr would work with anyone else, maybe Sid would've done that. Probably not, but it would have been nice to have had the option. 

"We stay out same time," Geno explains, slapping a lid onto Sid's cup. "Where is fair when I sleep and you work?" 

"Right," Sid says, and when Geno looks up at him, he's smiling, and Sid can't handle it. He used to think that if he worked hard, he could get anything he wanted, and it's tough to swallow the fact that Geno's proof this isn't true. 

"Maybe you go home early, take nap," Geno says, placing the coffee down on the counter. Sid picks it up and drops down a five. 

"Maybe," he says, and he shrugs a little. "See you later." 

He turns around and heads to the door. Geno calls out a goodbye, and Sid slips outside, heads back towards his office. 

Geno's hair was disheveled today, pressed flat on one side from how he laid on it, and Sid doesn't think about it and doesn't think about it and doesn't think about it. 

 

Back at the office, Sid does everything he can to just be _in the office._ He’s working, pretty swamped, and so when he’s able to actually focus on what he’s doing, he’s golden; but when something happens to remind Sid of Geno, or when Sid’s mind begins to uncharacteristically wander, that’s when things go a bit haywire. The problem with all of it is that Sid doesn’t even know Geno all that well; Geno has no business being able to mess Sid’s head up like this. Sid doesn’t think anyone should really be able to do that to another person, to take their thoughts and make it so like nothing else makes sense anymore. 

Sid tosses a dead highlighter towards the trashcan and starts a new one—green this time—while looking over the Jagr Inc. property assets. And it’s not even boring, what he’s doing—it’s genuinely interesting to him—but all he can think of is how Geno’s everywhere he could possibly want to go. If Sid wants to skate, there’s Geno and his fat lips, and if Sid wants coffee, there’s Geno and his loud laugh, and now maybe if Sid wants to go to Sprague Cleghorn, maybe Geno will be there too, with his stories of Russia and flour on his cheek and the way he makes Sid feel. Sid doesn’t like it, that’s for sure; he wants to go back to not wanting anyone, back to when he worked and skated and that was it, and he never wanted anything else because he already had it all. 

He lasts a good six hours before he breaks down and goes out searching for Gonch. It’s a low point in his life, he’ll readily admit that, but Gonch has a family and everything, and so he’s got to be pretty good at giving advice, and if not, he’s got to at least know how to stop wanting people. Gonch has to know these things, because Sidney sure as fuck doesn’t. 

Gonch’s office is completely different from Sid’s in that it doesn’t even look like an office; he’s got toys and trucks, and rugs that look like roadways, and in the chair behind his visibly underused desk is a giant stuffed penguin. Sid gets so distracted by it all that when Gonch looks up from where he is on the couch, reading a file, all he can think of is to say is, “Did you and the penguin go to the same law school?” 

Gonch doesn’t even humor Sid, because he’s terrible. Instead, he looks Sid up and down with a look of forced surprise on his face as he says, “Did you get lost on your way to Intellectual Property, or are you actually here to see me?” 

“Sergei,” Sid says, and he sits calmly down on the other end of Gonch’s couch, even though he really just wants to toss himself down. And maybe something in that gives him away, because Gonch sits up straighter and looks at him with his head tilted. 

“What happened?” he asks. 

“Nothing!” Sid says defensively, but then he remembers that he’s actually there for help, and so he caves. “That’s a lie.” 

“I know that’s a lie,” Gonch says. “You lie like my daughter does.” 

There are a million things that Sid could say to that, but there are none that he wants to say, and so he doesn’t say any of them, just sits and looks at the children’s art that’s framed on the walls, and the one large map of the world. Russia takes up more of it than it should, Sid thinks, considering he’s never been there; on the other hand, it doesn’t take up nearly enough, considering everything else. 

Gonch doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t rush Sid or even really pay him any mind, and Sid thinks maybe he was a psychiatrist in another life. Gonch would be good at that, if he was talking with people who weren’t Sid and actually knew how to talk. 

“Do you like being alone?” Sid finally asks. It’s as close as he’ll let himself get at the moment. Sid likes being alone. 

“Sometimes,” Gonch says. He’s looking at his papers and not at Sid, which is strangely encouraging. “But not very often.” 

“I do,” Sid says. “I only like two things, and they’re work and hockey.” 

“But you’re not alone during either of those things,” Gonch points out, and Sid doesn’t have an answer for that. 

“Right,” he says instead. “So, um. I’m just going to come out and say it?” 

“Okay.” 

“I’m sort of interested in someone, but I don’t want to be with them,” Sid explains. “Well, I mean, I _do,_ but I need to not want to.” 

Gonch looks at him for a second, and it makes Sid feel antsy. He shifts in his seat a little. It occurs to him in that moment that maybe he should be embarrassed, talking about this kind of thing. He’s not; he just hates it. 

“Why don’t you want to be with them?” Gonch finally asks. 

And Sid answers honestly this time, because there’s no reason not to. He says, “Because it’s easier.” 

“Well,” Gonch says, shrugging. “You’re shit out of luck. It doesn’t work that way.” 

And that—is not what Sid wants to hear. 

He knew it, though. Of course he did. Sid’s not an idiot just because he doesn’t have personal experience in the matter, but he thought that maybe if he told Gonch, if he asked Gonch, that Gonch might look at him and just _know,_ and he’d be able to say, _Sid, you’re better than this; you don’t want Geno, you just want his coffee,_ or, _you just want him to be your teammate,_ or, _you just want someone but that doesn’t mean you want him._

And the problem with those things is—they’re true. They’re completely true, but the list isn’t exhaustive. Now that it’s come to Sid’s attention that he’d maybe like to kiss Geno, it’s also been brought to attention that he wants to know more about Geno, too, and that maybe he always has. It’s not just the scar on Geno’s knee that Sid wants to know about, or his league in Russia, or why he likes coffee, but all of it, everything. He maybe wants to show Geno his apartment and his banged-up clothes dryer, and maybe wishes he took Geno up on that offer for dinner. Sid’s never had Russian food before. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, in Gonch’s office, but it’s long enough that he loses track of time and Gonch finishes reading through his file and goes to grab another one. Eventually, though—

Eventually, Sid stands up and just leaves. He doesn’t thank Gonch because Gonch did nothing, and he knows it, too, judging by the way his laughter follows Sid out of the room. 

 

That night, Sid goes home long after the lights of Samovar go out. That has nothing to do with why he stays, but he does notice it somewhere in between the possibility of Yzerman Industries diluting their shares and offering their current managers golden parachutes. It’s the stupidest thing, Sid thinks, watching companies sabotage themselves in an attempt to appear unattractive to potential buyers. 

The air is cold on his face as he walks from his car to the door or his apartment building, and it wakes him up a little, even though he’s not all that tired to begin with. He brought some paperwork home with him, even though he’s not really planning on doing it, but then he hops on the treadmill for forty minutes and runs through a shower, and before he knows it, it’s a quarter to two. Sid doesn’t see the point in sleeping for only three hours, and so he throws on a threadbare t-shirt and heads out to do some work on his couch. 

The thing is—not that it matters much to Sid either way, but—he genuinely thinks Jagr would be good to and for Yzerman Industries. What he needs to figure out, then, is how not to fuck it up until that happens. Fifty to seventy percent of takeovers destroy shareholder value, and Sid needs to work with Jagr and the Yzerman lawyers to find a happy medium that allows them to bypass that; Jagr doesn’t want the senior management to leave en masse, causing a general loss of experience and expertise, he doesn’t want the resentment amongst target shareholders, and he definitely doesn’t want the increased risk of paying too much for the takeover. Sid’s always heard that the hardest part of a takeover is making the deal work once it’s completed, but Jagr knows people as well as he knows business, and he’ll be fine if Sid can get him that far. 

Sid shifts on his leather couch and stretches his arms above his head. If he were asleep, it’d almost be time for him to wake up, but law school has made him used to not sleeping much, and then working has made him used to sleeping even less, and so he’ll be fine. It’s crazy, how well being a lawyer suits him; sometimes, Sid wonders what he’d be if he never figured that out. 

Walking over to the kitchen for a glass of water, Sid thinks about all the guys he knows, all the dozens of different careers brought together by the love of skates on ice. Flower's a banker and Dubinsky's an accountant, but they've got guys who are all over the place, and who refuse desk jobs, too: a handful of college kids and some teachers, two used car salesmen, a mailman, a sod farmer, a skydiving instructor. Danny Briere's computer systems analyst, Bobrovsky's the number one cop on the force, Colton Gillies owns and runs a daycare, and Carl Hagelin is a fucking fishmonger who owns four commercial fishing boats and more pairs of galoshes than Sid would know what to do with. If he's honest, though, Sid doesn't know what any of them see in their careers. It's not that he thinks the law is any better, because he doesn't, but sometimes he looks at their league and thinks they're better than this, than pond hockey and corporate buyouts and making coffee. 

Sid stands looking out his kitchen window for a while, just thinking, and when he hears his alarm go off in his bedroom, he tips out whatever water’s left in his glass and places it in the dish drain without bothering to wash it. He runs through another shower again, just out of habit, and gets dressed in the first suit he sees in his closet: navy, with a white shirt and a light blue tie. His sister says that with as much money as he has, he could stand to be a little more fashionable than he is, but Sid doesn’t care about clothes or how he looks, so long as he looks professional and competent and like he’ll get the job done. 

Sid carefully places his things in his briefcase and then rifles through his hockey bag, making sure he’s got everything he needs. He doesn’t know why he bothers, other than that it’s habit, because he’s got three sticks and five rolls of tape—two for his sticks and three for his socks—and an unopened twelve puck pack, just in case. Sid never has and never will show up for hockey unprepared; for Sid, hockey is the most important thing, and the second most important thing, and the third, and that’s just how it goes. 

Flower calls him just as he’s about to leave his apartment. Sid glances at the clock, and it’s earlier than Flower usually gets up, but maybe he didn’t go to sleep, either; Sid doesn’t know. 

“Hey, so, I just had the weirdest dream last night,” Flower starts, his voice rough like he’s only just woken up. 

“Yeah?” Sid asks, and he laughs a little. It’s all the prompting Flower needs. 

“Yeah, it was crazy; I got beaten up by Steve McKenna,” Flower says. “I can’t remember why he was beating me up, but I think it was because I let in a goal. He was pounding me pretty good, too, but right when it got so bad that I really would have been injured, I woke up.” 

“Can’t even defend yourself in a dream,” Sid jokes, locking up behind himself as he leaves. 

“What, from that motherfucker?” Flower starts, like he’s going to really pump his own tires, but then he stops and just says, “You think this is a premonition? You’ll protect me if he tries to murder me, right?” 

“Maybe he’ll be a no-show,” Sid says. “Maybe he had the same dream and he’s afraid of you.” 

Flower lets out a loud laugh, and then Sid can hear Vero say something quietly in French. 

“Shit—gotta go. Bye,” Flower whispers into the phone, and then he hangs up. 

Sid climbs into his car and doesn’t bother trying to make any sense of it. 

 

Sid drops his car off at the garage and then walks towards his office with absolutely no intention of stopping off at Samovar. He wants coffee, but the thought of seeing Geno makes his heart flop over in his chest, and so he’ll settle for making a pot in the office. Things with Geno used to be so easy, only now Sid doesn’t know what to say to him, doesn’t know what _not_ to say, and so it’s best to just not deal with it. Sid doesn’t need the stress. 

He spends most of his morning in high-stress, anyways, teleconferencing with the Yzerman lawyers and trying to deal with their complete lack of cooperation. After that, Sid gets up to put on another pot and then calls Jagr at ten, when he should have been in the office for just long enough to settle in, but not long enough for him to already have a million things on his mind. 

“Okay,” Jagr says when Sid explains the situation. He’d wanted to be kept abreast of it all, even when no input from him was necessary. “So that benefits them how? It doesn’t benefit them at all.” 

“Right,” Sid says. “Doing that is called a _scorched earth policy,_ after the military strategy. If they sell all their valuable assets, what’s left for you to want to buy?” 

“The infrastructure of a very successful company,” Jagr says simply. 

“Exactly,” Sid agrees. “And it’s public knowledge that you feel that way, so they probably won’t do it. Instead, they’ll hand out _golden parachutes_ —they’ll give current managers insanely high severance pay—or they’ll take what’s called the _poison pill,_ and make bargain-priced stock available to original shareholders, essentially diluting the value of what your stock will be upon takeover.” 

Jagr curses in Czech and then says, “Okay. What are the odds we can convince them otherwise? Friendly acquisition is definitely off the table?” 

Sid’s cell phone buzzes then, and so he grabs it off his desk, unlocks the screen to read the text. 

“Yeah,” he says to Jagr. The text is from Geno, and Sid should have ignored it. “They have to interest whatsoever in merging, but my aim is obviously to get this done as quickly and smoothly as possible.” 

_How you work with no coffee?_ the text says. _Meet you 5pm to drive to hockey?_

“I have no doubt,” Jagr says. “Call me as soon as there is new information.” 

“No problem,” Sid says, and then Jagr hangs up. 

Sid sits there for a minute after that, just staring at the screen of his smartphone, and he doesn’t really know what to say that doesn’t scream, _I want you more than I know how to handle._ What would he have said before all of this, before he realized that maybe Geno’s the one person he could want to be with for a while? He doesn’t know. 

He thinks about spending two hours in a car with Geno, pretending things are normal when they’re not, and he doesn’t know if he can do it. Geno’s not going anywhere—he said he wasn’t, not now that Sid told him about their league—and so if he could just wait and let Sid figure things out on his own, that would be great. Sid just needs to compartmentalize everything, and then he can get back to normal. 

_Stuck working late tonight,_ Sid texts back. _I’m sure Gonch can give you a ride, though._

It’s not true, obviously. Sid’s not stuck working late, but he _could_ be; he definitely has things he could be doing. So that’s fine, he’ll just show up to Marc’s an hour late, and see Geno only on the ice, where everything’s normal. 

_Okay (((((,_ Geno sends back, and Sid’s not prepared for how shitty he feels over it. 

He tells himself not to think about it, and throws himself into his work. It works for a while, too—all day, to be honest—but the second the clock ticks over to five, it’s like Sid’s body just _knows,_ because all of a sudden, he’s aware of the time, and of where he should be, and of where he isn’t. 

It’s fine, though; being late by an hour is nothing, and Sid can manage that this one time. 

Sid places his uncapped highlighter down on his desk, places a binder clip around a stack of papers and takes a binder clip off of a different stack. He reads over and highlights three pages, and when he glances at the clock again, it’s only been seven minutes. 

He needs to calm down. It’s not a big deal; people are late all the time, and if they play two games, missing an hour is nothing. He goes back to work, but he can’t concentrate, and the ticking of his wall clock is suddenly so loud, even though it’s an entire room away. 

Sid wiggles his pen back and forth between two fingers. He only makes it until ten past five before he thinks, _Fuck it,_ and races out of the office. 

 

Because Sid usually gets there insanely early, leaving only ten minutes late means he still shows up at the farm before a lot of people. He parks next to Dubinsky’s car and is about to grab his stuff from the trunk when an SUV pulls up and three young boys pour out of the backseat. 

“How about next time we wait until the car actually stops?” Giroux deadpans as he opens the passenger side door, because _of course_ it’s Giroux and Danny and the kids. 

“It _was_ stopped,” one of the boys protests, and Giroux shoots him a look. 

“Not a chance,” he says, and then Danny’s climbing out of the car, and none of them have noticed him yet. Sid’s torn between heading around back and just not moving, unsure of which is most likely to end in him having to interact with them. 

“Best behavior,” Danny warns them, “or I’m locking you in the basement for a week without food or water.” 

The youngest boy laughs at that, while the boy who had spoken earlier says, “But—” before turning to Giroux and just saying, “ _G,_ ” like he suffered the worst kind of betrayal. 

Giroux shrugs and says something back in French, and that’s when Danny turns around and notices Sid. 

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “Hey, Sid. I didn’t see you there.” 

“It’s okay,” Sid says, and now that he’s been found out, he grabs his stuff and slams the trunk. 

“Boys,” Danny says, “come thank Sid for letting you watch today.” 

All three of them turn to Sid, looking at him almost like he was the fresh meat despite being a good ten years older than them, and he says to Danny, “Um, it’s—really, it’s not a big deal.” 

Danny rolls his eyes like that’s not the point, like he’s saying, _Sid, please,_ and then he introduces them, “This is Caelan, Carson, and Cameron.” 

“Hi,” Sid says. 

“Hi,” Caelan replies, almost like he’s laughing at Sid, and then he elbows Carson, who says in the same kind of voice, “Thank you _so much_ for letting us come.” 

The youngest one—Cameron—looks up at Giroux and then back to Sid, and he says sweetly, “But Claude, he doesn’t _look_ like he fights like a girl.” 

Giroux lets out a bark of laughter, and Danny says something to the two of them in rapid-fire French that has Caelan and Carson looking at each other with identical faces of gleeful surprise. 

“Right,” Sid says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna—”

“Sid, I am so sorry,” Danny starts, and he’s probably going to say all sorts of other stuff, and so Sid cuts him off. 

“It’s okay,” Sid says, and then because he can’t let Giroux essentially get the last word, he adds, “Besides, I think living with Giroux is punishment enough for them.” 

“ _Ohh!_ ” the three boys say simultaneously, and Carson snaps his fingers. 

Sid takes that as his cue to leave, and as he walks around the house, he can hear Giroux joking with them, “Hold me back! _Hold me back!_ ” 

Sid hates to admit it, and he’ll never vocalize it, but Giroux’s actually good with the kids, and he’d probably be a pretty funny guy, if he wasn’t such an asshole. 

Geno’s pond-side when Sid gets back there, and it’s embarrassing how quickly Sid’s eyes search him out. He’s talking to Gonch, and the two of them are halfway into their gear. A part of Sid wishes that was him talking to Geno, and not Gonch, but he doesn’t know what he’d say even if it were, and so he does nothing about it. 

“Hey, Sid!” Flower calls out suddenly, grabbing Sid’s attention. He’s standing with Varly and Landeskog, and the look on his face is one that Sid’s all too familiar with, and he braces himself. “Just told Varly you offered to buy the guys all the remaining tickets to his concert! It’s for charity!” 

Sid bites back a _motherfucker,_ and tries not to notice the way Geno’s looking at him, like he can’t understand why Sid’s there. The tickets will cost Sid a couple grand, but it’s not like Sid doesn’t have that kind of money just laying around, and he’ll get Flower back for it somehow. 

“I do what I can,” Sid yells back generously, and he keeps walking, sets his bag down in an empty space, starts getting ready. 

When he’s hunched over, shoving his feet in his skates, an already-laced pair appears in his line of vision, and Geno says, “You escape office after all?” 

“Um, yeah,” Sid says, and he looks up. Geno seems impossibly tall, towering over him like this, and Sid can feel the weight of Gonch’s gaze on him as Gonch inevitably figures it all out. “Sorry, I just—I dunno. Sorry.” He doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for. 

“Is okay,” Geno says easily, smiling. “I look crazy, though, tell everyone you be late, but is okay.” 

Sid wants to laugh, to joke back that everyone already thinks Geno’s crazy, or maybe even to reach up and nudge the back of Geno’s hand with his own, but instead all he does is gesture with his sock tape and says, “Right, well, I’m just—”

He trails off and hopes that Geno gets it, but maybe Geno gets more than Sid meant for him to, or maybe he misunderstands it entirely, because he looks at Sid like he’s upset, or like he’s _worried,_ and that’s not at all what Sid was going for. 

Somewhere behind them, Hartnell jokingly hollers, “Briere brought his kids, so watch your _fucking_ language on the ice tonight!” The boys clearly already know him and laugh like he’s hilarious; Danny glowers, and Sid ducks his head and tapes his socks. 

 

Sid shouldn’t really be surprised, considering how his week has been going, but the rest of the night after that quickly turns to shit. Bobrovsky offers to be one of the linesmen when they tell him that means he can play the entire second game, and MayRay loses the draw to have to be the other; since that’s pretty ideal for Sid, he thinks nothing else will go wrong. He and Geno are drafted onto different teams, though, and for some reason, that makes Sid feel weird whenever he’s on the ice, constantly looking for Geno or expecting Nuge to just _know_ where he needs to be. 

It’s still hockey—still a better night than if he were doing anything else—but Sid spends the whole time feeling just slightly left of center. 

On the bench, Sid half-heartedly listens to Ference tell Dubi about the new tattoo that Segs is going to give him, but mostly Sid just follows the puck around with his eyes. Some of the guys are giving Bobrovsky a hard time with his calls, poking fun at the fact that he’s a cop, but they’re just joking around, and none of it is them being assholes. 

“Come on,” Whits yells after he gets called for hooking. “You’re a loose cannon, Bobrovsky! You’re off the case!” 

And when Gillies gets called out for cross-checking, he skates to the box while saying, “You’re an embarrassment to the department, Bobrovsky!” 

It makes Bobs laugh, and the same with a lot of the guys; Skinny seem to find it especially funny, although he laughs at everything. 

“I swear, he’s got to have used up almost his entire life’s quota for laughing,” Jared says next to him, still looking out at Skinner on the ice. 

“Hockey’s fun,” Sid says, like that’s a response, and back on the pond, play resumes. Sid gets ready for his line to be rotated back on, but just before they do, Backes back-checks Skinner hard, and Skinner goes flying, hits the ice and slides right off the pond because there are no boards. 

”What the _fuck_?” Eric yells, quickly skating over to make sure Jeff’s alright. 

“Hold this,” Jared says to him, passing Sid his stick, and then he races out onto the ice, speeding right for Backes. 

“Hey, you fucker!” Jordy is yelling from the opposite side of the pond, and then it’s like all the Staals are converging on the exact spot where Backes is. Marc gets there first, plows shoulder-first into Backes, and a fight starts out, all four of the brothers going crazy in a way that Sid’s only ever seen once before, back when Marc got into it with Semin. 

Sid stays on the bench with the Nuge and a couple other guys, but everyone already on the ice goes nuts as a huge brawl breaks out, the Staals fighting for Skinner’s honor, everyone else fighting for the sake of fighting. Briere gets caught in the mix, and his kids cheer and scream, “ _Mortal Kombat!_ ” and two seconds later, Jack Johnson pulls Cam Atkinson out from the center of the pile, and the two of them nonchalantly skate away. 

From the other team’s bench, Geno calls out, “Sid! Is this how it happen to you?” 

“No, I’m not a Staal,” Sid says, and he laughs a little, thinking of that whole night with Giroux and how they fought, and of how Skinny’s not a Staal, either, but maybe might as well be. Geno smiles as if he knows what Sid’s thinking, and Sid has to look away because he wants to kiss Geno so badly just then. 

Things are real tense after that—not just between Sid and Geno, but everyone—because everyone’s angry, and even if they’re not, fights change the atmosphere of things. Hartnell ends up fighting Phaneuf during the next period, and everything’s just heightened, Hartnell yelling, “Suck it, Phaneuf!” as the two of them are pulled apart, Phaneuf making a crybaby face right back at him. 

They all agree that it’s probably not the best idea to play a second game, although Bobs complains about it good-naturedly. 

“Play second game, they say,” Bobs mutters loud enough to be heard. “Second game best game, they say.” 

“Welcome back to the force,” Whits chirps, shrugging like, _Dems da breaks._

“Here’s your badge and gun,” Gillies says, and Bobrovsky laughs like he wishes he didn’t find any of it funny. 

Sid sits down by his bag and starts taking off his gear, listening idly to everyone around him. Danny’s getting a few quick stitches along his eyebrow from BizNasty, his kids fawning all over him as if they’ve only just now seen their dad for the first time. 

“You got in a fight, Dad, that was so cool,” one of them says. Sid’s already forgotten all of their names. 

“I can’t _wait_ to tell James,” says another. 

“I’m glad my discomfort provides you with a good story for your friends,” Danny says, and Biz laughs. 

“Danny B, it’s provided _me_ with a good story for my friends,” he says, and the boys laugh. “You’re so cool; be _my_ dad.” 

Sid’s taking off his second skate when Geno walks over and sits down next to him. He’s already completely dressed down, and Sid has no clue why he’s moving so slowly himself. 

“Gonch say he give me ride home,” Geno tells him, and Sid nods. 

“Okay,” he says. He figured as much. 

Geno looks at him for a second, and Sid just looks back, because he doesn’t know where else to look. Eventually, though, Geno shoots him a small smile and stands up. 

“See you, Sid,” he says, but Sid’s chest feels like it was something a lot worse, even though there’s no way Geno meant it as anything other than _See you._ He turns to Gonch, then, and yells out, “Sergei! _Ya gotov!_ ” 

Sid doesn’t know what that means, and isn’t sure if he wants to or needs to. Gonch just walks past and looks at him like he’s fucking up, and Sid knows he is, but he doesn’t know what else to do, because the entire time Geno was sitting next to him, all he could do was think of how close they were to touching, and how badly he wished they were. 

“Hey, G,” the youngest Briere asks quietly from somewhere behind Sid, “when can I play hockey with you and Dad?” 

And Giroux says back just as quietly, “I dunno, bud, but I’m counting the days.” 

They’re not really saying anything, and it’s not like it’s all that private considering they’re not speaking French, but it _feels_ private, and so Sid avoids looking back at them, shoulders his bag, and heads home alone. 

 

By the time Sid gets back to his apartment, he's dead on his feet, and it doesn't take long for him to fall asleep, collapsed on top of his bed sheets and still wearing his clothes. It's great, getting those hours in, but it also means that Sid wakes up reeking of sweat the next morning, and has to spend extra time in the shower just to make sure he doesn't comes out still smelling like BO. 

Sid drives to work even though it's a Saturday; he heads inside his building, and his plan is to drop off his briefcase before heading to the kitchen to throw on a pot of coffee, but when he gets to his office, Gonch is there, sitting behind Sid's desk with his feet kicked up. 

Sid freezes in the doorway, beyond confused, and he looks from Gonch to the clock and then back to Gonch again, because not only is it a weekend, it's only six forty-five and he had always just assumed that Gonch didn't know that time existed in the morning hours. He means to say, _What are you doing here?_ or maybe even, _Get your feet off my desk,_ but instead what comes out is, "Did you buy me coffee?" He doesn't even realize until he says it that sitting next to Sidney's computer are two Samovar cups that definitely weren't there the night before. 

"No," Gonch says, rolling his eyes and making no move to get out of Sid's chair. "From your boyfriend." 

Sid's not an idiot—he knows Gonch means Geno—but he doesn't want to talk about it, and usually if he plays dumb for long enough, people start to believe him. So he says, "I don't have a boyfriend." 

Gonch shoots Sid an incredulous look and, lacing his fingers over his stomach, says in falsetto, "Dear Gonch, I love my barista and my barista loves me; how do I needlessly complicate things? Is there legal precedent for this? Please write—"

"Alright," Sid cuts him off, dropping his briefcase and snagging one of the Samovar coffees without asking again. He sits down with it in one of his armchairs and then, when his brain catches up, says, "Wait—what?" 

"I know," Gonch says. "But it's true." 

And that—Sid thinks Gonch probably meant it as good news, judging by his smile, but the thought of Geno maybe liking Sid just puts Sid's heart in his throat and makes it feel like he can't breathe. Everything was so much better when he thought Geno wasn't interested, because while Sid had _wanted_ him to be, at least he know then that _he_ was the problem, and that it was fixable, that they could go back to normal. But now that Geno maybe feels the same—the ball's not in Sid's court anymore, and so even if Sid got over everything, it'd still be weird because he wouldn't know if _Geno_ had, and Sid didn't sign up for any of this. He just wanted a cup of coffee, and that's it. 

"Um. Let's not talk about this," he says. "I have a lot of work to do." 

"Ah, yes, the Sidney Crosby Avoidance Technique. I know it well," Gonch says. 

"I'm not _avoiding_ anything," Sid defends himself. "I'm working on a multi-billion dollar case." 

"You're also being an asshole to Zhenya." 

And that's—okay, that's not completely unfounded, but Sid's not actually doing anything; he's just making sure to be himself, and that means putting hockey first and work second. It's how Sid's always been, and it's not his fault that Geno doesn't realize that. 

"I'm not being an asshole," Sid says. "I act like this with everyone." 

"You've not once acted like this with Zhenya," Gonch points out, standing up and smoothing out the non-existent wrinkles on his vest. "So can you please apologize to him before out next game? You were both depressing as fuck last night." 

Gonch doesn't wait for Sid to respond, which is good because Sid doesn't know what to say; instead, he shows himself out, and takes his coffee with him, leaving Sid alone in his office. 

Sid takes another sip of his coffee and then begins to pick at the cardboard sleeve around his cup. He doesn't know what to say because he's not good at any of this stuff, and he's got the Jagr case to work on, and now that all parties involved in the Stastny-Sakic merger are on board, he has to make sure those papers get signed without any trouble, too. Sid doesn't have _time_ for any of this extra stuff. 

The cardboard sleeve rips where he's picking at it, revealing sharpie scrawled on the cup. For a second, Sid ignores it because he made that mistake before, but curiosity wins out and Sid takes the sleeve off completely. 

Painstakingly written just above the Samovar logo on the side of the cup are the words _I'm sorry._

And Sid just—Geno's so _dumb,_ apologizing to Sid when he's not the one who did anything wrong. It makes Sid feel like shit, and so he takes his phone out of his pocket to text Geno, to say, _Don't be,_ and, _I'm the one who's sorry,_ and, _I just like you and don't know how to act around you,_ but when he finally gets the blank text screen up, he forgets all of it, everything. 

He sits there and stares at his phone for a few minutes, but he can't think of anything to say. He wonders if this is one of those situations where it's best not to say anything at all, and then instead buys the last thirty tickets to Varly's charity concert before getting to work. 

 

The day starts off alright, but even though it's the weekend, by eleven thirty, Sid’s buried in work. He forgets how fickle corporations can be, because when he says he's going to do something, he _does_ it; with corporations, though, they all agree to something and then simultaneously jump ship thousands of dollars in legal fees later, when it comes time to actually sign the papers. It's driving Sid up the wall, and giving him extra work.

He supposes he could always snag one of the firm's associates to help him go over things, but there's no point, because he knows that the second they're gone, he'll just end up going over everything they did, anyway. It's fine; Sid works better alone.

Which is strange, come to thing of it, because he's not really like that on the ice. Sure, sometimes he can do it all himself, take the puck from their own half and weave it past everyone until it hits the back of the net, but hockey is a team effort, even then. It's like Sid gets all his desire to work with others out of his system in the winter, so the rest of the year he can just plow through work unhindered.

Sid tosses his post-it flags down on the desk and stretches in his chair. For a second, he thinks about loosening his tie, but the unprofessionalism in the gesture makes him rethink it, and so he doesn't, instead runs his fingers through his hair twice, as if those two were at all the same or interchangeable. He tries to turn his focus back to his work, reads up on the Yzerman Industries cash reserves, undervalued assets, and real estate, and then he tries to value a potential Jagr megabid, even though that's not a part of his job description. Later, he calls the offices of Vezina and Roy to set up some meetings that he's been putting off because he hates having to wine and dine clients; he's terrible at it, although people seem to think otherwise, but maybe a free meal just has that effect on people.

The thing is that it was just different, playing with Geno. Sid's never played with someone like that before, with someone who just gets him so completely as a player. And Geno gets Sid off the ice, too; maybe not completely, but more than anyone else Sid could name. That's why this whole thing is less than ideal: Sid was really liking being friends with Geno; dating is awkward and uncomfortable, and with both people pretending to be perfect and desirable, when maybe they're neither. Sid doesn't have the time or the patience for that. Really, all he wants is exactly what he already has with Geno, only sometimes he'd spend the night and Geno's, and sometimes Geno would spend the night at his. That's it, that's all he wants, but people always make things more complicated than they need to, and now he supposes it doesn't even matter, because things between the two of them are weird.

Sid spends the entire day cooped up in his office, his mind stuck on that loop, bouncing from work to hockey to Geno and back again, and he gets by on cup after cup of office coffee, eating whatever his secretary orders in for both lunch and dinner. By the time he resurfaces, his eyes are strained and it's dark in the hallway, everyone else having long since gone home.

Sid glances at the clock; it's three in the morning, and he has no clue how or when that happened. He sort of vaguely looks forward to when he's between major cases and has a bit of downtime, but he knows that when that's the case, he'll just be looking forward to having all-nighters again. They give him something to do, and he hates being unproductive.

His legs are stiff when he stretches them out under his desk, and so he gets up, plans to take a short walk around the offices and to the kitchen, just to get the blood in his legs flowing again.

It's strange just how different everything looks at night, Sid thinks, passing his secretary's desk; it's like the calm before the storm, or maybe the abandonment afterwards. He yawns into the back of his hand and then turns down the hallway towards the associates' desks, although he doesn't know why. He hasn't been there in ages.

Sid remembers when he was an associate, sitting back here without an office, overworked and underpaid, and he remembers just how badly he wanted to make it. He played hockey even then, even when it meant that he wouldn't get any sleep, although he supposes that not much has changed except for how now he's a partner and has more money than he knows what to do with. He's uncomfortable with that, for some reason, and so he donates most of it, even though he still has more than he needs.

Of the dozen or so desks in the large, open space, only one is still occupied. The desk light in the corner is on, casting a faint glow in the room, and Brendan Gallagher is in the chair, his head down on paperwork, fast asleep. Sid knows who he is because everyone's always talking about him, about Gally, when Sid can actually be bothered to listen. Gally's only twenty and has already graduated from Princeton Law; his grades and interests are supposedly so similar to Sid's that they're like carbon copies, the only difference being that Sid is a handful of years ahead. This is just more to add to that list: the same associate desk, the same penchant for all-nighters.

Sid doesn't wake him up, just leaves Gallagher where he is and goes back to his own office to try to get more done. He can't focus, his body tired from sitting in the same chair for hours, and so instead Sid takes a break and heads home, his mind set on a shower, a new suit, and a protein shake before he has to turn around and head right back to the office. 

 

Sid’s trip home is quick and uneventful, and he gets his car back to the garage about a quarter to five, early enough that it's still dark out and no one's out on the streets. He thinks that maybe he'd like having a job like that, with regular, set hours, but he knows he'd hate it; Sid likes working hard, and loves getting to see the payoff for it. 

The cold air feels nice on his face as he walks towards his office, and although it's only a few degrees away from quickly freezing his damp hair, he feels awake because of it, rejuvenated by the shower. 

He's not really watching where he's going, not expecting anyone else to be out there with him, and so it comes as a surprise when he rounds the street corner and almost gets bowled over. 

"Sorry," Geno says, reaching out to steady him, because of course it's Geno. That's how Sid's luck goes: if it's not fucking _Claude,_ it's Geno. "Oh, Sid, is just you." 

"Um. Yeah," Sid says. There's a pillow crease peaking out from under Geno's toque and running down the side of his face, and Sid wants to trace it with his fingertips; he shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. 

"You early—only just go to open now—but I can still make coffee, if you want," Geno offers. 

"No, it's okay," Sid says, and he shifts uncomfortably on his feet, looks over Geno's shoulder just for something to look at. He wonders if other people feel like this all the time, like maybe their heart will beat right out of their chest if they're touched, and even if they aren't. "I'm pulling an all-nighter, been drinking too much office coffee already." 

And it's not a lie—that's the thing, it's _not_ —but Geno's eyes flick to Sid's shower-damp hair, and over his freshly pressed, unwrinkled suit, and Sid knows how it looks. 

Geno doesn't say anything for a minute, just lets his breath come out in little grey puffs for a while, but when he does, his eyebrows are knitted together and the corners of his mouth are pulled down. He says, "Sid, I do something to make you mad?" 

"No," Sid rushes out, because it's not that at all; it's the _opposite_ of that. "Just—work." 

"Okay," Geno says, but Sid can tell he doesn't buy it. And then, almost like it doesn't mean anything and so it's easy to say, he adds, "Mornings are too quiet, now." 

"Yeah, I know, but I've been—sorry," he says, apologizing again without reason, and when Geno licks his lips, Sid brushes his wet hair off his forehead, just for something to do. 

Geno rolls his eyes a little at the gesture, and it's almost like it was before. 

"You catch cold and get sick with wet hair outside," Geno says, and before Sid can stop him, he takes off his own toque and tugs it on over Sid's head. He's smiling a little, but he doesn't really look happy, and Sid doesn't really like that. 

"Oh, um," Sid says, reaching up to take off the hat. "You don't need to—"

"Sid," Geno says. He doesn't knock Sid's hand away, but he reaches out like he wants to. "Just keep hat. Hockey tonight, and can't play if sick." 

And that—it's only two blocks to Sid's office, but Geno makes a good point, and so Sid leaves it on. 

"Okay," he says. 

"Okay," Geno repeats, shoving his hands into the pockets of his zip-up. "Now I go inside before _I_ freeze, but see you tonight." 

"Right," Sid says. "Yeah, of course." 

They stand there for a second more, neither of them saying anything, and that's all it is—just a second—but it's a second too long, and things feel awkward, and Sid can't help but notice that Geno didn't ask for a ride this time. 

He's thinking about maybe offering Geno one, if he needs it, when Geno shrugs and says, "See you, Sid." 

"Okay," Sid says, and then Geno steps around him, walks down a few storefronts before unlocking the door to Samovar and ducking inside. 

Sid stands there for a beat longer before adjusting the toque on his head and then walking down the street to his office. 

 

Sid works through the entire morning, through having to call back four separate clients and through one incredibly difficult teleconference, and he only starts slowing down around eleven, his eyelids blinking sluggishly, his yawns coming more and more frequently. He needs coffee, but looking his firm logo mug at the corner of his desk, he realizes that he just doesn’t have it in him to drink more of that office sludge. 

So he texts Gonch, _Go get me coffee from Samovar. Will pay for yours, too. I’m swamped._ And it’s true; Geno won’t even be there now, so it’s not like Sid has any other reason for not going himself. 

Not even a full minute later, Gonch replies, _It’s two min away, get it yourself._

Sid doesn’t really associate with any of his other coworkers, and since he’d feel bad sending his secretary, he stands up and puts on his jacket. He debates it for a minute, but then he puts on Geno’s toque, too, and heads out the door. 

Sid doesn’t usually go to coffee shops in the middle of the day like this, so he’s surprised when he gets there and there’s a line about six people deep, two kids besides Ashley working behind the counter. The pastries especially seem to be a big hit, and the sandwiches, but Sid’s only there for the caffeine. The whole place smells good, like coffee beans and a few more hours of wakefulness, and Sid breathes deep before bringing a hand up to cover his yawn. 

The line moves fast because so many people are making the drinks, and it’s Sid’s turn to order before he really has the chance to get antsy and sick of waiting. Sometimes when that happens, he just leaves before he even orders, but today his whole body feels trapped underwater, and so he’d wait however long he had to. 

When he steps up to the register, Ashley smiles like she has bad news. 

“He’s not here,” she says apologetically. 

“Um. That’s okay,” Sid says, because that’s actually what he was going for. “I’m just here for coffee.” 

“Oh,” she responds, her smile dropping. “Then what can I get you?” 

“Extra shot nonfat latte, as big as you can make it,” he says, and he gestures with his hands, _big,_ before handing over a five and refusing the change. 

Ashley smiles at him for a second and then says, “Coming right up.” She switches places with one of the other workers, and Sid gets his coffee not long after that. 

“Thanks,” he says, and she waves him off. 

“Don’t mention it,” she says. “You look tired.” 

And Sid doesn’t know how to respond to that, so mostly he’s just glad when she refocuses her attention on the next customer. 

All in all, it’s about a ten-minute trip. Sid’s already halfway done with his coffee by the time he’s back in his office, but it was worth it, because it really is that much better. He sits down at his desk, his jacket off and behind him on the chair, and he rolls his shoulders back once before returning to work. 

Sid flips open the first file left on his desk—a potential case for him to take and do pro-bono, which Sid doesn’t mind, because he makes too much money as it is, and likes giving back. He weighs the pros and cons of this particular case, takes some notes on it and the one other pro-bono being offered to him, and by the time he checks his watch, he’s only got about four more hours to go. 

Sid yawns; it’ll be good to be out on the ice again, because that wakes him up in a way that coffee never could. Maybe things between him and Geno will seem less awkward tonight; maybe Voracek will have shaved his beard, and maybe Dubi’s hair will be parted less aggressively, Sid doesn’t know. Stranger things have happened. 

He works steadily as the clock ticks over to half past two, and then he gets up, heads to the kitchen to grab a water from the fridge, hoping the walk will wake him up. He doesn’t even want to count the hours that he’s been up; too many to count, too many for another few hours to at all make a difference in how he feels. 

Sid sits back down at his desk and loosens his tie. His brain is the kind of fuzzy where he doesn’t really remember the walk back, all of it done on the most tired of autopilots. He should have made another pot of coffee while he was in the kitchen, but too much of that stuff isn’t good for the body. He wonders idly if Samovar is still open, and then feels like an idiot because he doesn’t know why it wouldn’t be. 

Sid grabs a stack of papers on a client’s financial assets, and leans back in his chair. 

Sid blinks—

 

Sid blinks awake. He’s still sitting in his desk chair, his neck aching from the awkward position, and the clock reads four. Which is strange, because nobody’s there, and the lights are off, and—

And it’s four in the _fucking morning,_ and Sid just slept through hockey. 

“Shit,” he says to himself, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and sitting up. He’s pissed, can’t believe he passed out and that his cup of coffee did nothing. Unless—maybe she accidentally gave him decaf? But that’s her job; that’s not exactly an easy mistake to make. He must have just been more exhausted than he realized. 

He looks on his desk for his phone, but it’s not there or in his pockets, and so he looks on the floor _around_ his desk, and there it is, on the carpet where it most likely landed after it vibrated its way over the edge. Sid picks it up and when the screen comes to life, he’s got twenty-eight text messages and six missed calls. 

He goes through the call log first, mostly because it’s easiest. Three of the calls are from Flower, spaced eight and seven minutes apart respectively, and the remaining three are from Gonch, Marc, and surprisingly, Dougie Hamilton. 

Sid doesn’t do anything about the calls, because he’s not calling anyone back at four in the morning, and so instead he starts scrolling through his texts. A lot of them are normal, like the ones from Flower asking, _Where are you?_ and, _Hey fuckface, are you okay?_ But there are some ridiculous ones, too, of the guys chirping him for missing out. 

_You should see us try to get stuff done without you,_ Beau’s says. _#headlesschicken._

Sid deletes that. 

Actually, Sid deletes them all as he reads them, the _What the fuck_ from Whits, and _U non_ from Hallsy, and _When my students skip, they get detention_ from Nikitin. 

It only really turns relevant for him when he gets halfway through and finds a text from DR BIZ IF YA NASTY that says, _Bro, chill but Talbo’s leg is a done deal. You break it, you buy it._

And Sid thinks maybe he’s still too exhausted for this, because that makes no sense. So he scrolls over to the next text, just a photo of Cally with a broken nose and John Moore with a black eye, and then to the following text from Tazer, which says, _Don’t listen to them; the fight wasn’t that bad and everyone is varying degrees of fine._

Okay, so—a pretty big fight, then, is what happened. Sid appreciates Toews being responsible enough to actually let him know what’s going on via something other than injury pictures. He’s not really worried too much about it, because fights happen; usually not everyone gets quite so busted in one go, but they do happen. 

Only then Max sent him a text saying, _If I didn’t sign the paperwork, can I sue?_ and Sid a little bit freaks the fuck out at that. Luckily, one of the guys sent him a video—Hartnell—and so maybe, _hopefully,_ it’s not looking too bad. Sid plays it. 

At first, the video just sweeps the poorly-lit pond and all of the sticks discarded on the ice, a bunch of guys still milling around, and then Hartnell says, “ _The aftermath,_ ” like it was the title of a documentary or something. He takes the camera around, showcasing a few injuries: “Tazer—tooth right through his lip—ouch!” and “Smile, G, you’re almost missing as many chiclets as Ovie!” But he gets to the relevant bit eventually, to Max lying on the side of the pond. 

Sid sits up straight and studies the video, looks closer at what’s going on. Max _looks_ okay, no blood or anything, but everyone’s circling around him, so who knows? 

“Bro, I’m sorry,” BizNasty is saying, latex gloves on as he checks over Max. Sid can just barely hear him through the phone’s shitty speakers, over the background noise of everyone else. “We’re gonna have to amputate.” 

Max laughs—a slightly pained laugh, but still—and tosses one arm over his eyes. He says, “You guys are fucking assholes; I don’t know why I hang out with you.” 

“’Cause you love us, Talbo,” Hartnell says, and then, while the camera angles towards the ground as Hartnell obviously tries to turn it off, Sid can hear Varly off-screen saying, “ _Nu, Zhenya_ —”

And then the feed stops. 

Sid stares at the frozen image on his screen, the giant replay button in the center, and he thinks back over whether or not he saw Geno. He doesn’t think so, but he replays the video just in case. This time around, he picks up on things in the background, like Skinner laughing while Eric forces a bag of—presumably Marc’s—frozen peas on him, and he thinks he can just barely make out Segs rapping, “Excuse my charisma, vodka with a spritzer,” his arm thrown around Marchy’s shoulders, but other than that? No Geno. Which is fine. 

Sid finishes going through the rest of his texts—things like a picture from Flower of a perfectly fine Henrik with the message _Thank god our model is safe,_ and a picture of a perfectly fine Flower with the message, _Can a banker still work when he’s looking so busted?_ from Henrik—but that’s pretty much it. Sid thinks maybe he missed something and so he goes back through his inbox, but he’s deleted all the pointless texts, and everything leftover is old. 

Practically everyone that was there had texted him, but Geno didn’t. Sid pulls up his email on his phone, just to check, but the only new one is about Max’s hospital visit, and that’s not from Geno, either. 

It’s stupid, because this is what Sid wanted. Sid _wanted_ Geno to go back to being a stranger, only now that he has, it turns out to not be what Sid wants at all. 

He takes his phone, and since he can’t text Geno, he texts Varly, _Hope your fingers are okay,_ and then he gets up, heads home for another shower before he has to be back to start the day. 

 

Sid's halfway into a pair of trousers, his shower towel still draped around his neck, when he just thinks, _Fuck it._ He hangs his pants back up and scrubs at his wet hair with the towel, and then he climbs into bed. He's sort of reached the point where he's just burnt out, he thinks, although he can't exactly be sure because this has never happened to him before. Sid's never accidentally missed hockey before, or voluntarily missed work. 

He's just tired, is the thing, and he pulls the covers up over his head, even though it's still too early for there to be any light to block out. The sun hasn't even risen yet. Sid can't believe he missed hockey; winter isn't that long, and he's got to get on the ice every chance he gets, or else he'll blink and miss the whole season. 

Sid lies there and goes over all the things he needs to do in his head. There are a lot, and most of them are work-related, but not all of them. He needs to call Jagr with an update, and archive some of the Stastny-Sakic files; he needs to sharpen his skates and go to Varly's concert and find out what actually happened with Max. He needs to straighten things out with Geno, too, and maybe that's the one that matters most, or the only one that matters at all, Sid doesn't know. 

When he finally falls asleep, he's out like a light and sleeps for a long time. He wakes up once, because he thinks he hears someone moving around in the kitchen, but maybe he dreams that, because he doesn't even bother to get out of bed to check it out. He doesn't set an alarm, either, which would be nice, except for how his phone rings like crazy about ten hours later, waking him up around three. 

Sid reaches out blindly for it, sends his phone skittering across his end table before he's finally able to get his fingers around it, and when he answers, it's with a half-formed, "H'lo?" 

"Zhenya." 

Sid pulls the phone away from his ear and squints down at the screen. It says, _Alex Ovechkin,_ and Sid rolls his eyes. 

"No. This is Sid," he says. 

"I _know,_ " Ovie tells him, and there's noise in the background like he's at work. "You not so great, Sidney Crosby. I don't know why you being such a dick to Zhenya, but there are lots of Russians playing hockey—like little Russian Mafia—and we will—" He cuts himself off and starts speaking louder, in an overly friendly tone, and Sid assumes his boss is walking by. "You interested in three-piece jewelry set for only $24.95 extra, or just beautiful necklace today?" 

"Um," Sid says, but a beat later, Ovie's back to normal. 

"—we will _make you pay,_ " Ovie hisses, and Sid doesn't have the time for this. Sid will never have the time for this. 

"I have actual work to be doing," he says, even though he's half-naked and still in bed. 

"Look," Ovie says. "When I think of you, I think _good friend_ —"

"Really?" Sid asks incredulously. 

"—so this is me doing you favor: talk to Zhenya before he goes back to Russia." 

"He's not going back to Russia," Sid says. "I asked; he said he was staying here." 

Ovie lets out a huff of laughter and says, "Dude, he is going at end of month." 

And that—the shitty thing is that Sid's already decided, _without_ this information, that he needs to fix things with Geno. Only now Geno's leaving, which means that maybe it doesn't even matter, and even if he _does_ talk to Geno, Ovie will be patting himself on the back for it for the next five years. _Ovie_ isn't why Sid's going to talk to Geno; _Ovie_ has very little to do with anything Sid does, and the fact that he’s going to think otherwise is pretty unfortunate. 

"Right," Sid says. "Okay. Good talk, but I'm—"

He gestures a hand over his shoulder, even though he's not going anywhere, and it's not like Ovie can see him, anyway. 

" _Ni pukha ni pera,_ " Ovie says. "Good luck, loser." 

And then he hangs up, and Sid is left wondering what the hell just happened. 

 

That weekend, although Sid doesn't set an alarm, he still wakes up early—a side effect of habit and sleeping too much the night before. It’s still too early to go anywhere or do anything, and so instead of heading out or placing work calls, Sid hits the treadmill while he watches the news. Running is good—same as the bike—in that it takes his mind off everything. 

He hops through a shower a little less than an hour later, and while that takes ten minutes, he spends double that standing in front of his open closet. Suits are good because they’re standard; he buys what the people at the store say looks good, gets the pieces tailored, and that’s it. Suits are minimal struggle that look like maximum effort. Weekend clothes, though? Sid has no fucking clue. He throws on jeans and a shirt, and he prays for the best. 

Samovar is crowded when he gets there, compared to how he usually sees it: most of the chairs are taken up—unlike with the lunch rush from the day before—and there’s still a line. If he were just there for the coffee, Sid wouldn’t even bother waiting, but as it is, he’s not, and so he stays. Geno looks really good. 

The closer it gets to being his turn to order, the more nervous Sid gets. Or maybe _nervous_ isn’t the right word, not exactly, but if it’s not, there’s no word for what he’s feeling; Geno’s the only person in his life who makes him feel it, anyways, so Sid supposes it doesn’t really matter what it’s called. 

When he steps up to the register, Geno looks at him like he’s at a loss, and says, “Same as always, Sid?” And maybe it’s rhetorical, because he’s writing on the cup and sliding it down the counter to the baristas before Sid can even answer. Geno’s wearing a button-up and a cardigan under his Samovar apron, and Sid wants to touch the soft skin on the inside of his wrists, wants to take Geno out to dinner. 

“Um,” Sid says belatedly. “Yes.” And then, because this is the moment and the reason he’s here, he opens his mouth to say, _I’m sorry,_ and, _Let’s be friends again,_ and, _Also, can I kiss you?_ “And a _pirozhki,_ ” he says instead. 

Which—Sid’s only two seconds into the conversation and he’s already fucking up. Great. Only maybe he’s not; maybe he said exactly as much as he needed to, because Geno’s smiling at him as wide as Sid’s ever seen, his face open and fond, and it makes Sid’s chest feel hot, his cheeks feel warm. He wants Geno to always look at him like that. 

“ _Pirozhok,_ ” Geno corrects, not caring that there’s a small line forming behind Sid. “If is one, just _pirozhok._ But Sid—they all sweet today, not good for hockey lawyer.” 

He’s chirping Sid, obviously, and moving to pick one out from behind the glass as he does—a cheese one, or a fruit one, or any one, it’s doesn’t matter—and Sid just tries not to smile too much as he says, “Shut up.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Geno says. “I shut up, you start to miss me.” 

Which—

“Don’t go back to Russia,” Sid says, and he doesn’t mean to say that, either; it just comes out. He still means it, though, still wants Geno to stay there with him and their league and everything. But Geno just looks at him slightly confused, and so Sid shoves money towards him and explains, “Ovie said you were.” 

“Of course I go back to Russia,” Geno says. He starts counting out the change, but Sid waves him off. “Russia is home, miss my family, but is only one week.” 

“Oh,” Sid says. Ovie conveniently forgot to mention that. “So you’re coming back?” 

“Yeah,” Geno says, and he laughs. One of the other baristas apparently notices that Sid’s not going anywhere fast, because he opens the other register, and the line behind Sid shifts over. “Here, I have shop, hockey league—”

“Me,” Sid says, although he has no clue if that’s potentially romantic or just incredibly dumb. “I’m here.” 

“Yeah, you here,” Geno says, still smiling at Sid, but it’s different this time. Sid doesn’t know what this one means, this smile, but he figures it doesn’t matter; a smile is a smile is a smile, and it’s coming from Geno. 

“So, um,” Sid says, and he shifts a little on his feet before reminding himself to stand still. If he treated Geno like a client, he’d display none of these awkward ticks, but Geno’s not a client, and Sid doesn’t want him to be, and that’s the whole point. “Are you going to Varly’s thing tomorrow?” 

“I think so,” Geno tells him, and then when Sid’s name is called out at the other end of the bar, Geno darts across to the other side of the espresso makers to grab it for him. 

“Oh. Thanks. I could’ve just gotten it later,” Sid says, and Geno rolls his eyes like it wasn’t a problem. 

“No, I know you,” Geno says. “You forget.” 

“Yeah,” Sid says, laughing a little. “Probably.” And then, because it’s why he’s there in the first place, he says, “I bought like, thirty tickets, and Varly’s really good, so. You should come; I think everyone’s coming.” 

“Okay, then I come,” Geno says easily. 

“Do you need a ride?” Sid asks. 

And Geno just says, “Yes,” as simple as that. 

“Okay,” Sid says. 

And then—and this is the part most unlike Sid—he just stands there and smiles at Geno, and Geno stands there and smiles back, the counter between them and an entire coffee shop around them. And none of it makes Sid feel the way he does when he’s on the ice, but it’s the first time that he can really remember being on solid ground and not wishing for the extra few inches of skates. 

Neither of them say anything for a few seconds, but eventually, Geno looks pointedly down at the pastry bag and then back up at Sid, and he says, “Ride to concert doesn’t mean you don’t have to try.” 

Sid laughs a little and pokes at the paper bag with one finger, nudges at the opening until he can just about see the pastry inside. 

“ _Sid,_ ” Geno says. “Just _try._ One bite is nothing.” 

“I know, I know,” Sid says, and then he reaches out for real, pulls the pastry out of the paper bag. 

The _pirozhok_ looks like a little bun, golden brown from the oven and dusted with powdered sugar, and it’s more or less the size of Sid’s palm. It smells good, too, sweet and like apples, and when he tries it, it tastes even sweeter, the dough and the filling and the knowledge that Geno’s hands made it. 

“Is good, I know,” Geno says, smiling at him as he chews. “Next time, you try _vatrushka._ ”

And Sid wants to say no, wants to say that he doesn’t eat unhealthy pastries, but he likes the way Geno’s looking at him, and so he says, “Okay.” 

 

Sid meets up with Flower the next afternoon for their regular weekend lunch at the diner. Flower’s already there when Sid pulls in, and since he is the way he is, he didn’t bother waiting for Sid before going inside and getting both a table and an appetizer of mozzarella sticks, buffalo wings, and potato skins—all things Sid would never eat, which is good, because Flower’s almost finished with the platter when Sid walks in, still two minutes before the time they were supposed to meet up. 

“Thanks for waiting,” Sid says, pulling out his chair and sitting down. Flower had ordered him a water with no ice or lemon, though, which is nice, and he takes a sip. 

“Yeah, anytime,” Flower replies just as lightly, buffalo sauce coloring the skin at the corners of his mouth. And then he continues, more seriously, “I’m so hungry; I didn’t have breakfast because I ran out of milk and all that was left in the fridge was Vero’s almond stuff.” 

“That’s alright in cereal,” Sid says, and he watches as Flower grabs the last potato skin and pushes the empty plate to the side, leaving room in front of himself to flip through the menu. 

“I guess,” Flower says. “But we still have Varly’s thing tonight, so who knows when I’ll eat again.” 

Sid laughs and says, “Right, because a piano concert means starvation.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” Flower says, pausing for a second to read the pasta page. “I have no fucking clue how long these things take.” 

“It’ll be interesting, I guess. I’m just praying no one shows up in a tuxedo shirt,” Sid says, and he’s still watching Flower flip through the menu, carefully reading every option as if he’d never been there before. 

“Ten bucks Biz does, for sure,” Flower says. 

“I hope not,” Sid says, and he takes out all of his tickets for the night, tosses them on the table for Flower. “You take these,” he says, keeping two for himself and Geno, because Flower’s better at dealing with that stuff. 

“Sweet,” Flower says, taking the envelope. “I think maybe I’m just going to get a burger.” 

“You think?” Sid asks. Flower never ceases to amaze him in that respect; he gets one _every time._

“Yeah, maybe,” Flower says, and he closes the menu before flipping it open again a minute later. “You wanna drive to this thing together? I don’t know where I’m going.” 

And that—Sid doesn’t really know what to say, because he’s not entirely sure where he and Geno stand, and so he just keeps it simple, says, “I can’t; I’m picking up Geno,” even though his car is more than big enough to fit Flower in, too. 

“Geno, eh?” Flower says, and he looks up. “What’s up with that?” 

“Nothing,” Sid says. “I don’t know; nothing. We’re friends.” 

“Don’t be a secretive douche,” Flower says, and then like magic, the waitress appears and Flower flushes, says to her, “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” she says, shrugging. She’s young—high school probably, college _maybe_ —and so she most likely knows worse insults and slang than the two of them do. “Can I get you guys anything to eat, or do you need more time?” 

She looks between the two of them, and when Flower doesn’t answer, Sid says, “Can I just get plain, grilled chicken breast, actually?” He scratches the side of his neck. It’s always a little uncomfortable, ordering something not on the menu, no matter how simple and doable it is. “With some pasta and whatever vegetables you’ve got?” 

“Sure,” she says, and doesn’t even bat an eye. “Steamed okay?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Alright,” she says, and jots that down before turning to look at Flower. “Anything for you?” 

Flower looks at the menu and then at Sid, and then he shrugs, says, “Screw it. I’ll just have the bacon cheese burger and a Coke.” 

Their waitress nods and says, “Coming right up,” and heads off to the kitchens. 

Sid thinks maybe it’s best to cut Flower off at the pass, to change the conversation before Flower picks it back up, and so he says, “So you want to propose to Vero?” 

“No,” Flower says bluntly, and Sid’s sort of confused because he’s pretty sure that’s what Flower had texted him. Only then Flower continues, “No, you don’t get to do that, fuckface; I talk about me all the time. What’s the deal with Geno? Should I be jealous that you like him more than me?” 

Sid rolls his eyes because that’s really the only possible reaction to that, and adds, “Literally nothing happened. Things were weird because—” he gestures, like, _me_ — “but I apologized.” 

“You gonna ask him out, or what?” Flower asks. 

There’s a pause where the waitress comes over with Flower’s Coke, and Flower scrunches up his straw wrapper as much as possible when opening it. Once his straw’s free, he uses it to drop a bit of Coke onto the straw wrapper on the tabletop, the liquid causing it to wriggle and squirm as it straightens out. It’s something Sid did once or twice as a kid, but he hasn’t seen someone do it in a long time. 

“Well?” Flower prompts, and Sid just shrugs helplessly. 

“No. I don’t know,” he says. “It’s just—I mean. He’s really—” Sid waves a hand vaguely again. “I don’t know.” 

Flower looks at him for a long moment, like maybe there’s something written on Sid’s face that wasn’t present in his words, and then he says, “Yeah, okay,” and changes the subject. “Do you know shit about engagement rings, or are you useless to me?” 

Sid lets out a long breath and then says, “I don’t know anything about it, but I’m good at research?” 

“Yeah, you are,” Flower says, “you law school loser,” and he moves his glass in circles on the tabletop. It feels like he means something else by saying that, but Sid doesn’t know and doesn’t ask, just rolls his eyes and kicks Flower underneath the table. 

 

Sid and Flower waste so much time at the diner that by the time they leave, Sid only has an hour before he needs to pick Geno up at Samovar. That’s fine though, because he runs through a shower and then puts on a suit, which is essentially his morning routine; he’s got that down to a T, efficiency maximized to the point where he hardly even needs to think about it. So by the time he hops in his car to head out, he’s feeling pretty good about life and Geno and everything; he’s ready to listen to some music and support a friend, and see the guys off the ice. 

Only when he pulls up to the coffee shop, Geno’s leaning against the brick front of the shop and wearing a suit, too. Sid’s not prepared for that. He doesn’t know what he was expecting—because of _course_ Geno would be wearing a suit, they’re all wearing suits—but this wasn’t it. Geno looks really, really good, and now that Sid knows what he wants, he _wants._

Sid pulls over, unlocks the car, and when he does, Geno opens the passenger side door and slides right in like be belongs there, right next to Sid. He looks over, smiling, but before he does up his seatbelt, he wiggles his tie between his fingers. 

“Now I look like lawyer,” he says, joking. 

“No,” Sid says, looking back at him. “You don’t look tired enough to be a lawyer.” 

“Maybe I have good barista,” Geno counters, and Sid laughs at that. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, and he pulls away from the curb. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Geno adjust the seatbelt by his neck and then relax back into the seat; his legs are long, and when he stretches out, his knees bump the glove box. 

“You see Varly play before?” Geno asks. 

“No,” Sid tells him. “I’m not actually big on music, not even really the stuff on the radio.” 

“When I was young, my mother try to make me learn balalaika,” Geno says, and the memory of it makes him smile. He says, “I tell her, _I can’t play, fingers too big, too many strings._ She say—” Geno cups his hands around the air in front of him, as if he were cupping someone’s cheeks, “ _Zhenya, you just need heart._ ”

“Let me guess,” Sid says. “You didn’t have heart.” 

“ _No,_ ” Geno laughs. “I’m not Alexey Arkhipovsky; I don’t get balalaika.” 

“I tried to learn the trombone once,” Sid says, and that prompts laughter out of Geno. “In middle school. I was really bad.” 

“I’m glad to hear,” Geno says. 

“No way,” Sid says. “I don’t even think I could play Hot Crossed Buns anymore, and besides, I don’t actually own one.” 

“No, I mean, I’m glad to hear you _bad,_ ” Geno corrects. “I start to think you too perfect.” 

“Uh, no. Not even close,” Sid admits, which is strange, because if it were anyone but Geno, he’d probably hate admitting that. “And definitely not at the trombone.” 

Geno laughs again—Sid likes that, being able to make Geno laugh—and he says, “I look at you, I think, clarinet for sure. Or flute because it fit in skate bag.” 

Sid rolls his eyes, but since he doesn’t know what to say back, he just doesn’t say anything. They ride in comfortable silence for a few more stoplights after that, Geno still slouched in his seat, and Sid can’t help but recognize that his suit will definitely wrinkle if he keeps that up. 

So Sid says, “You’ll wrinkle your suit if you keep sitting like that.” And then, of course, he immediately feels like an idiot, because Geno’s a grown man, and if he wants to sit like that, he can. “I mean—never mind. Ignore me.” 

Geno smiles and sits up anyway, says, “Can’t ignore, or I get lawsuit.” 

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work like that,” Sid says, and Geno shrugs. 

“You the lawyer,” he says, and then more seriously, “No, but thank you. I forget because I wear t-shirt all time; don’t want to look worse than Sean Avery.” 

“No one looks worse than Sean Avery,” Sid reminds him, and Geno nods like, _Point taken._

“I have picture,” he says, though, “of me and my brother, Denis, both in all black. I show you one day—in that, I dress worse.” 

“I didn’t know you have a brother,” Sid says. 

“Just one,” Geno confirms. “Older. Still live in Russia, but we talk every few days.” 

“I have a younger sister,” Sid says. “She wants to play hockey, but I don’t think my parents want her to.” 

“Denis play too, but for him is not like for me, where hockey is everything,” Geno says. “I leave Russia, but Denis stay, has girlfriend, is fine with no league.” 

“Yeah,” Sid says, mostly just as filler. 

“Anyway,” Geno continues, and then after another beat of silence, he laughs and says, “I still can’t believe Varly wants all hockey league at concert. Worst idea ever; does he know us?” 

“It won’t be that bad,” Sid says, and even though he’s looking at the road, he can feel the pointed stare Geno shoots his way. 

“Sid,” he says, “I am new, and even _I_ know everyone in league is crazy, crazy.” 

“Hey,” Sid says, mostly because he doesn’t want to admit that Geno’s right. Sid would never invite the guys to his office; Sid loves them, but he doesn’t even want them to know what building he works in, even though they could easily find out through Google. 

“Fine,” Geno says. “You just one crazy, but still crazy. Don’t even try to deny.” 

And Sid opens his mouth like he’s going to, but then he thinks about it. He’s an obscenely well-paid lawyer who would quit his job for the sake of his hobby, if he needed to. He has no interest in ninety percent of people, once apologized to a friend by eating a pastry, and is so superstitious when it comes to numbers that he went out of his way to ensure that the apartment he bought was number eighty-seven. Sid closes his mouth because he definitely fits the bill for crazy. 

Geno laughs and says, “Is okay. A little crazy good sometimes.” 

And Sid thinks—a little crazy is good sometimes. He can accept that. 

 

When they pull into the venue parking lot, there is so much going on, and it looks like nothing more than sheer madness. A lot of cars are there, the parking lot mostly full, and although Sid can see some older concertgoers heading inside, the overwhelming majority of people milling about are hockey people. Sid’s driving slow because of everyone, but he still almost accidentally runs over Carts and Richie when they dart between the rows, laughing and tossing glances over their shoulders like they fucked with someone and are expecting retribution. It’s crazy, just how many of them came out for Varly; they came out in force, and Sid likes that. 

Another car is pulling in right next to them when Sid finally gets far enough that there are open spots, and so he has to wait a second before he can get out. When he does, the driver of the other car gets out too, and it’s Colton Gillies, dressed in a suit and with faded marker all over his face.

He catches Sid looking, and so Sid asks, “Rough night?”

Gillies just laughs a little and says, “Daycare,” waving vaguely at his face and the half-scrubbed, lopsided heart on the side of his forehead, the wobbly star on his cheek. “It’s all fun and games until someone slips a sharpie in with the face paint markers.”

“Um,” Sid says, half-smiling. “Luckily, I don’t know anything about that.”

“Don’t worry; I’m suffering enough for the both of us,” Gillies says, but he’s smiling, too, and Sid knows that he loves his job, and so Sid doesn’t take him all that seriously.

Sid walks around to meet Geno at the back of his car, and the second he does, people start hollering their hellos. 

“Sid!” Beau yells out. He makes what Sid assumes to be a hashtag with his fingers and says, “Hashtag Culturedhockeyplayers!” 

Sid just laughs and waves back, because he doesn’t know what to say to that.

Then Paulie walks by with Duper a second later, and says, “Geno, the Real Deal is looking for you.”

“He too lazy to find me himself?’ Geno asks, shaking his head, but it’s not the kind of question that’s looking for an answer, and so he doesn’t get one.

Sid casts a glance around. Kaner and Tazer are there, and Ference and Chara and Segs—sans dog—and so are Cally and Danny G, Subban and Cabbie and Simmonds and MayRay. It seems like everyone’s there, almost. Sid knows that they’re only a small percentage of the audience, considering the size of the theater, but it seems like they’ve taken over; maybe it’s because regular concertgoers don’t loiter by their cars, or maybe because hockey players just take up more space and more air and make more noise. Sid doesn’t really know. 

He and Geno walk down the row, mostly just to see who else is there and to say hello, considering that they’ve got plenty of time. The Staals are there, judging by Marc’s pick-up truck and the fact that they always travel in a pack, but Marc’s the only one of the four there when Sid and Geno walk by.

“Oh, hey, Sid,” Marc calls, grabbing Sid’s attention. He’s standing with Voracek by the cab of his truck, pulling back the tarp that’s covering the bed’s contents. Giroux is two cars down with Hartnell, and Sid pretends not to see him, instead watching how, when the tarp is removed, a cross-section piece of a tree truck is revealed. It’s massive, but Sid has no clue why it’s in the car, or why he’s being shown it. “Got a second?”

Sid looks to Geno, and Geno just shrugs, says, “I have to go find Lazy, anyway.” He waves towards Marc and Jake and then heads off.

“Sure,” Sid says to Marc belatedly. “What’s up?”

“We're just trying to move this into my truck,” Jake says. “It’s real close.”

Sid looks from the wood to Jake and back again, and wonders what the hell use Jake could have for a piece of wood that large; he’s not really sure what Jake does, because Jake’s not one of the few that actually filled out the paperwork, but he thought Jake was a lumberjack or something. He definitely looks the part.

Sid doesn’t say that, though; instead, he shrugs and helps Marc and Jake roll the wood towards the door of the cab.

“The tree cracked most of the way through because Jared ran my fucking tractor into it,” Marc says conversationally. “Safer and easier to just take it down completely.” He shrugs a little, and when they lift it out of the cab, his face looks strained at the weight. It’s just as heavy as Sid expected, and the three of them shuffle-walk a few spots down, to Jake’s car. Sid thinks they probably look ridiculous, carrying a massive log through a parking lot, trying to keep the wood from getting too much all over their suits. “Took all four of us to get it in the truck.”

“You forget I’m superhuman,” Jake says, but then he smiles so widely at his own joke that Sid’s reminded of how young he is. The beard is deceiving, and the long hair isn’t helping. 

“What do you need this for, anyway?” Sid asks.

Before they can answer, Hartnell interjects as they pass, “Don’t lumberjacks have enough wood as it is?” He’s still sitting on the bumper of the car they’re walking past, still talking with Giroux, but he says it like a joke, and Jake just rolls his eyes.

“If I was a lumberjack, I’d borrow more of G’s plaid,” he says, and so maybe he’s not a lumberjack. Maybe Sid just thinks that because of the jokes. 

“Everyone’s a critic who only wears solids,” Giroux says, and then he opens the side door to Jake’s car so they can get the wood inside. Sid doesn’t know why they would’ve even started moving the log when Jake’s car door wasn’t already open for them, but maybe getting Giroux to do it was the plan all along. Luckily, Jake owns this massive, pretty run-down van, or else it never would’ve fit.

“I need it for a project,” Jake says, pointedly to Sid, and Sid only. “I’m a woodcarver.”

“Oh,” Sid says, and next to him, he can hear Hartnell and Giroux slip into their own conversation with Marc. “Like, furniture?”

“No,” Jake says. “I mean, I can, but mostly I just make sculptures, art.”

“Oh,” Sid says again, still genuinely surprised. Talk about not reading a book by their cover. “That’s really cool.”

Jake stares at him for a second like he’s trying to discern whether or not Sid’s joking, but he must come to some sort of conclusion, because he smiles and says, “I’ll whittle you something, sometime.”

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s easy,” Jake says, cutting him off. “I do little things in front of the tv all the time. Like little sculptures.”

“Yeah, that’d be—”

Sid’s about to say, _awesome,_ but then from one row over, someone yells out, “Hey, break it up!” which obviously means there’s a fight going on, and everyone gets distracted by it. Sid doesn’t know whether or not he should be surprised, considering how many fights they constantly get into on the ice, but a part of him just thought they’d all be able to put things aside for one night, out in non-hockey society.

Sid walks between the two nearest cars and over to the next row, just in time to see John Moore uppercut Jack Skille before Boyle and Versteeg pull them apart. Skille’s bleeding from somewhere near his eyebrow, although Johnny Moore’s not, and Brian shakes John by the shoulders a little, says gleefully to him, “Who even knew you had that in you?”

Brian seems to find it all entertaining, although BizNasty doesn’t, because he squeezes through the crowd in his tuxedo shirt—of course—takes one look at Skille, and then _tsk_ s, says, “You need stitches or your brain’ll fall right out, Jack.” He sits Skille down on the back bumper of his Corolla, and then pulls on latex gloves. Biz wipes at the blood on Skille’s cut eyebrow, and when it almost immediately comes back, he goes, “Aurgh! Do you guys see that?”

A dozen paces away, John Moore is frowning, tugging at the shoulder of his jacket and saying, “That asshole ripped my suit.” His black eye from a few days ago is faded but present, and he looks beyond ridiculous considering that now the seam holding his sleeve to the rest of his jacket has almost completely come apart, just hanging together by a few stitches under the armpit.

Sid looks out at everyone—at the sheer madness of them being together but not at the pond—and thinks that if this is the worst that happens tonight, they’ll actually probably still be coming out on top. 

Either way, Sid’s kind of enjoying himself, if he’s being honest.

 

Their entire herd of people heads in at more or less the same time, because their seats are all in the same area, and also because Flower yells out, "We're heading inside now; get moving or risk being the only fucker without a ticket!" 

Sid finds Geno as everyone's walking to the doors, and he says, "Hey, I have ours." He takes them out of his jacket pocket and hands one to Geno.

"Thanks," Geno says. And then, quietly so only Sid hears, "This feels like walking plank."

"It'll be fun," Sid says back, just as quiet. "It's for charity."

Geno laughs real loud at that.

Inside, Sid's kind of floored by how big the place is, its multiple balconies, and its rows and rows of seats. He knew people really liked Varly's stuff, but the number of people there and the ornate stage and everything just tells him that he didn't know anything.

Their group's tickets are on the first balcony, all the way to the left and taking up a section from the back row all the way to the front.

"I need an aisle seat," Max yells, and Sid rolls his eyes as he gets to his own. Max is hobbling his way over on crutches, wearing all black save for a red bowtie and matching red shoes, and apparently he has been milking his broken leg for all it's worth.

"You’re being a douche," Flower says, not argumentative or confrontational or anything, which is what _makes_ it argumentative and confrontational; Max reaches out and whacks him with a crutch, and none of them belong here, in a venue like this. They're all bruised and beaten from the fight a few days ago, split lips and black eyes and uncombed hair, lopsided tie knots and boat shoes with mismatched suits. They must look like they just came out of a meat grinder, in comparison, and the idea that they look like people from the wrong side of town makes Sid laugh to himself.

Two rows in front of him, Anisimov agrees to switch seats with Max, and when he does, he says, "I like your butterfly."

Sid watches, confused, as Max stares at Arty for a second before saying, "What?"

"Your—butterfly," Arty tries again, and this time he gestures towards his own throat, to where his bright red bowtie would be if he were Max.

" _Oh,_ " Max says. "My _bowtie._ " Then he laughs, says, "Butterfly; that's cute."

Arty starts trying to defend himself, saying that the words for _butterfly_ and _bowtie_ are the same in Russian, and Sid's about to turn to ask Geno if that's true when someone taps him on the shoulder from the row behind.

"I see you two friends again," Ovie says, shoving his head in between Sid and Geno's, and smiling a big, toothless smile. "Very happy for you both," he says, and then probably because he knows Sid'll hate it, he gives Sid a sloppy kiss on the temple before darting away, continuing down the row to his seat.

"What is wrong with him?" Sid asks, posing the question to no one in particular.

"He even worse in Russian," Geno answers anyways, and Sid looks at him, smiles when Geno smiles first.

"Only like five minutes until it starts," Sid says, and he looks away to start flipping idly thought the program.

"And how long it last?" Geno asks.

"I dunno," Sid says. "There's not really all that many songs listed."

Dubinsky leans forward from down the line a few seats and tells them, "They're actually called _pieces,_ and what they don't tell you is that any one of them could be twenty-five minutes long, and you'd never know." There's a pause where everyone around them just sort of stares at him, and so then he explains, "I dated a violinist in college."

"Guys?" someone says from the right, and when Sid turns, it's Ryan Jones, wearing a black suit and a bright blue backwards cap, and holding three massive bouquets of flowers. Which—he's a florist, so Sid supposes that makes sense, but it's still bizarre; Sid didn't even _think_ to bring anything. He wonders if they were supposed to. "What're you all doing here?"

"What do you mean, what are we doing here?" Peckham asks. "Aren't you here to meet up with us?"

"No," Jonesy says, blinking in surprise. "I didn't know anyone was coming."

"So, wait," Ebs says. "You were just coming on your own?"

"Yeah," Jonesy says, his cheekbones prominent as he tries not to smile before he knows what's so funny. "Just to hear some good music, I guess."

"You are a complete non," Hallsy tells him, "while still somehow managing to be a total beaut. I don't get it."

"Do you get it?" Ebs asks him, messing around.

"I don't get it," Hallsy repeats, and Jonesy just shrugs and shifts a little, causing the cellophane around the flowers to crinkle loudly. 

"Quit standing there and sit down already," Whits says, and Jonesly startles like he's only just realizing he's still standing, and then he squeezes himself down a row with an empty seat.

Geno leans into Sid as Jonesy is doing that, crinkling his way past people's bent knees, and he says, "What it say that we friends with these guys?"

"That we need new friends," Sid deadpans, and Geno laughs under his breath.

Sid opens his mouth to say something—although what, he doesn't know—but then the light dims, and the theater quiets down.

When Varly walks out onto the stage, he's in a classic tuxedo, and someone in their group whispers loudly, "I love his butterfly," and a few of them start laughing, trying hard to keep quiet. 

If Sid's going to be honest, he hardly even recognizes Varly because of what he's wearing and how he's holding himself and the way he's done his hair. He sits down at the bench and everything is so still, no one making a sound as his hands hover over the piano, but then Varly's fingers hit the keys, and he takes off. He looks like he belongs up there, like he gets the piano in the same way that Sid's only ever understood the ice; Varly can connect with the audience—with older, affluent people, men in ascots and pocket squares, women in large pearl necklaces and brooches—through music and what it stands for and how it sounds, but watching him play, Sid isn't fooled.

Varly is hunched over the keys, throwing his entire body into it as much as his fingers and hands, and it may be beautiful, but it's violent, too, and so there's no mistaking that Varly is _theirs._

Sid loses track of time, watching Varly just as much as he's listening to him, but at some point, Geno places his hand on his own thigh, and then shifts it so that the back of his hand presses into the back of Sid's.

Sid stares at it for a second—at Geno's large hand, at his own slightly smaller one, at the nonexistent space between the two—and he doesn't look at Geno, doesn't really smile or press his hand back or anything, but he doesn't move his hand away, either, and that means something.

Later, though, when their hands are still touching, Sid sneaks a glance at Geno; Geno's smiling a little to himself, but he must know that Sid's looking at him, because his smile only grows wider the longer Sid looks.

Sid nudges his hand against Geno's briefly, just to let him know that he's been found out, and then Geno turns and looks at him full-on. He's still smiling, and it's like Sid's gotten it all out of his system, or like he's a completely different person, because his heart races and his stomach bottoms out, but it's not necessarily in a _bad_ way, and so he just stays there, smiling at Geno as they press the backs of their hands together, until the piece ends and Sid needs his hand to clap.

 

Getting out of the concert hall proves to be a lot more difficult than it was getting in; Varly gets about three separate rounds of applause and quite a few wolf whistles, but then everyone has to leave at the same time, and so no one really gets anywhere fast. Once they're out in the cold nighttime air, though, Sid and Geno walk side by side to the car, their hands in their pockets and their shoulders bumping occasionally.

"I can't believe how good he was," Sid says. "I mean, I can, but—"

"I know," Geno says. "Me too."

"Did you know any of the songs?" Sid asks. It's loud in the parking lot, but it feels unbelievably quiet around the two of them. "Or pieces, whatever." 

"Just one," Geno says. "First one was Rachmaninoff, and he was Russian, so."

"I didn't know any of them," Sid says. They keep walking, shoulders bumping and their breaths showing in the air in front of them, and eventually, Sid says, "Um. So I know I didn't really say it, but I’m sorry about before. It wasn’t—I was just—"

"Sid," Geno interrupts. They've made it back to Sid's car, and Geno's standing closer than normal. "I already say is okay." 

“Alright,” Sid says. “Okay,” because there’s nothing else for him to say. Only then he goes to suggest that they head out, and instead ends up telling Geno, “I really like you.” And that—he wishes he could take it back, sort of, even though hearing himself say it makes something in his chest feel like he just pulled a double shift.

"I already know that for a long time," Geno says, but he doesn't explain, and Sid doesn't ask him to. "Can I kiss you?"

"I just said that I like you," Sid points out, because he did, and he _does_ like Geno, and he _would_ like Geno to kiss him. They're all one and the same, for Sid. 

"Yeah," Geno says lightly, teasing except for how what he's saying is completely serious, "but when he not on ice, lawyer Sidney Crosby move so slow he almost go backwards. He doesn't like quick movement, big sound, invitation home for Russian dinner—"

Geno cuts himself off there, clearly mid-thought, and he just looks at Sid for the next few seconds, his eyes flicking back and forth between Sid's own. Sid thinks about waiting to see if Geno's going to kiss him, but that only lasts for a heartbeat, because Sid hates waiting for anything, especially the things that he's already earned and should already have.

And so Sid takes a step forward, pushes Geno back against the side of the car, and then he leans up, kisses Geno on the mouth exactly the way he wants to. Sid's always been told that he has big lips, but he thinks Geno's must be bigger, because they definitely feel like they are, pressed against his own.

Geno kisses him back exactly the way Sid always thought he would, slow and languid and with a lot of tongue, soft except for the underlying promise of more, and Sid wants to know what that more is, wants to know all the things that make Geno tick and that make his breath hitch in his throat.

It's not a long kiss, and when Sid pulls back, his hands are still trapped between their two chests and pushing Geno back against the car. He lets go of Geno's shirt, smooths out the fabric as he says, "Sorry," and tries to step back, but Geno's hands are placed flat on the small of his back, his fingers splayed wide, holding Sid where he is.

"I want to kiss you again," Geno says. 

Sid looks around, and either no one saw them or no one cares, because nobody is paying them any attention. He's a private person, though, doesn't really like his business being out for other people to see, and so kissing Geno in a public parking lot is hardly something he'd like to make a habit of. 

Still, he refuses to be one-upped, and so he says, "I want to kiss you again, too.”

Geno doesn't lean in again, just smiles a little and let's Sid go, like hearing it is enough for him.

"Alright, hey!" Eric Staal yells out, and when Sid look over Geno's shoulder, he can see Eric and Jordy standing in the bed of Marc's pick-up truck. "If we could just have everyone's attention..."

Geno turns around so he can see what's going on, and when he does, Sid gets a better view; Marc and Jared are there, too, sitting on the tailgate, and all four of them have shed their suit jackets in order to put hockey sweaters on over their shirts and ties. Sid can see that there's a logo on the front: a tractor driving atop a horizontal pitchfork, the words _Staal Family_ bracketing the top and bottom. 

Someone must say something, because then Jordy turns around to talk to someone on the other side of the truck, and Sid can see that the back of his sweater says _J.Staal 3._

Jared hops up to stand beside him, and when he turns around, he's _J.Staal 4._

"It's pretty risky," Jordan calls out when he turns back around, "to be drafting this early in the season—"

"But when you know," Jared continues, "you just _know._ "

"Except for when you don't," Marc points out, still sitting on the tailgate, his feet dangling. Geno looks at Sid and raises his eyebrows, and Sid just shrugs because he has no clue what's going on, either.

"But we know," Eric says, and Sid can hear Jeff laugh. It takes Sid a minute to place him, but when he does, Jeff doesn't look any less confused or amused than the rest of them, his eyes crinkled as he smiles, his hands out in a gesture of _What the fuck are you doing?_

"I have no clue what's going on right now," Subban yells out, but none of the Staals explain, and Marc just hands a balled-up sweater up to Eric, who takes it with a nod.

"It may be a bit unprecedented," Jordan says, ignoring multiple shouts of _Dictionary!_ , "but with our first-ever Staal Family draft pick—"

"I'm not going to lie," Jared says, "we're actually pretty excited about this."

"The Staal Family selects," Marc speaks up, miming a drumroll, "from Eric's Greek Classics 101 class—"

"Jeff! Skinner!" Eric finishes, and when he unfurls the fifth and final sweater, the back says _J.Skinner 5._

"You guys are so fucking weird," Jeff says, but he's laughing, and the guys wave him over, chirp him until he listens and climbs up into the cab with them to put on the sweater.

Sid turns to Geno.

"You want to get out of here?" he asks.

"Yes," Geno says. "You want you come over, I cook _pelmeni_?"

"Yeah," Sid answers honestly. "I actually really do."

Geno smiles wide, like that was the best answer Sid could have possibly given, when really, at this point, it's the only one. Sid smiles back.

He unlocks his car and both he and Geno climb in, and then he backs out of his spot slowly, careful not to hit anyone even though he may want to, especially when Cally bangs twice on the side of his car, and when Cabbie yells out after them, "Later, doggies!"

Sid thinks about what just happened while he and Geno pull out of the parking lot, mostly because he can't _not._ The Staals are ridiculous, just like every other guy in the league, but they got it right tonight, because if there's one thing they know well, it's family. And Sid's not going to so much as even think the words, but the truth is, they kind of all are, even guys like Ovie and Giroux, and even the guys that they don't see much anymore, like Mario and Gretzky and Bobby Orr. It's just nice, that's all, to have found that in a group of people who have nothing in common except for a love of hockey, the one thing that matters most in all of this.

Sid tries not to smile at the thought and instead just lets Geno give him directions back to his house, their elbows touching on the center console as he drives.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read any of this fic, you’ll probably notice that bits and pieces seem really familiar to you, and that’s because I took some things that happened in real life and sort of just twisted them around and turned them on their heads until they looked like something that could conceivably happen in a coffee shop AU that is still somehow all about hockey. You’re all probably way better at fandom than I am, but just in case you’ve not seen them, or feel like reliving some of these highs and lows, in no particular order:
> 
> Eric Belanger [really did pull out one of his own teeth on the bench](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ii2E10-NxFA), and [really did go on to lose like another seven.](http://voices.washingtonpost.com/capitalsinsider/with-about-7-12-minutes-remain.html)
> 
> Ryan Whitney really did move Ladislav Smid [into an elevator office.](https://twitter.com/ryanwhitney6/status/316927131374465024)
> 
> [#KreiderPics](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5rDVIV77V8g) is a real thing… Before they delete, retweet!
> 
> Segs, oddly enough, really did make the comparison, ["Marshall. Like a Martian,"](http://video.bruins.nhl.com/videocenter/console?catid=659&id=185429&cmpid=embed-share-video) at around 0:57, and [@MarshallSeguin](https://twitter.com/marshallseguin) exists.
> 
> PK and Cabbie are the [the world's best zookeepers](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iod_ABZm2JE) and I refuse to hear otherwise.
> 
> Anisimov—what a cutie pie!—really did make [the butterfly/bowtie mistake](https://twitter.com/CarsonReider/status/321295120400015360)
> 
> [Sprague Cleghorn](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sprague_Cleghorn) is a real dude, as is his brother, although they are significantly less badass in real life.
> 
> [Luongo’s poetry](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iw1vJfCn-ko) is a thing of my heart.
> 
> [YOU’RE THE #1 COP ON THE FORCE, BOBROVSKY](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ksb7UlwCIKQ)
> 
> And, just to shove a few more things at you, Flower really did [tell Vero that he wasn’t a hockey player, and he really did have a nightmare about McKenna](http://www.themaskbetweenthepipes.com/marc-andre-fleury---personal.html), John Moore really did [beast out against Jack Skille](http://youtu.be/XpF-wyOm3G4), “Suck it, Phaneuf” is [real, although less violent](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDxZP3fnWhU), and Jagr has, in the past, [said some weird shit](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/j/jaromir_jagr.html).
> 
> Here’s [Geno’s black bread recipe](http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2009/04/black-bread/) and [pirozhki recipe](http://natashaskitchen.com/2010/03/03/russian-piroshki-pirojki-with-apples/), the [Rachmaninoff piece played by Varly](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W71TJWD7qno), a clip of Alexey Arkhipovsky [on the balalaika](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZmzP73rPTD4), and Geno and his brother [dressed on par with Sean Avery](http://luxover.tumblr.com/post/48811827244).
> 
> :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [like flying](https://archiveofourown.org/works/775033) by [distira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/distira/pseuds/distira)
  * [between the shadow and the soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/890136) by [mousselinegateau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousselinegateau/pseuds/mousselinegateau)




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